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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Nature · #1290516
"What ancient gifts are left . . ."

What ancient gifts
are left, that we
have not destroyed?

In everlasting space
where drifts Humanity’s woes,
what Eagle soars his tortured sky
with wings ripped from bullet holes?

Inside a windless moon
that searches deep and hard and wide,
because it cannot hear the Wolf
whose song to it, once cried.

Beneath a distant wave
that comforts creatures within its depths,
its sorrow meets with salty cries
as slaughtered Dolphins dive to untimely deaths.

Hear rainforests scream their fall,
diminished beauty by the hour,
why won’t anyone heed their call?

What will it take to understand
this sigh of Ancient Gifts:

one day your search will
find them - -

a distant memory, a longing
within an ancient mist.


If we keep going at the rate we are
now, that’s exactly what they will be:
a distant mist.
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