The Gathering Storm

The Gathering Storm

The old tales tell us that blood is the key.
The old moon sets and a new one rises,
But nothing changes. The tides of the sea
Drift in and out, bringing no surprises –
For nothing changes. And you, my dear friend,
Wander as blindly as I do through life
Hoping to find ourselves a happy end.

What brings happiness in this age of strife?
We yearn to make art, yet that brings us pain–
And nothing changes. No food to eat, and
Art soon dies, quenched in blood from opened veins.
Living this way is building castles of sand:
Too soon, public views wash this all away.
Most call on money to ease suffering:
The power of dollars turns night into day
(If you have enough: I’m quickly learning
That more money leaves more money needed,
Until joy is lost ‘neath demanding life,
And the world that remains is pale, faded).

Do you hear the drums and screaming fife?
They will come as surely as the tide rolls –
A war for profit, as they all seem now.
Once, people fought to protect self and souls –
One thing changed. But who will sing the death knells
For those dead for greed and those who remain?
We are caged birds, yearning to be free...
Yet if we fly from this blood-drenched plain,
Who will sing the dead into realms none see?
Mortal blood may not free us from this night
But it is heart’s blood with which I write.
We must wait, and live however we can,
Lest none protest man’s cruelty to man.