New World
by Mary Lambert |
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The old ones whisper through us as we witness the dissemination of all we knew. Toward a New Age we go, alone. Who will know we were here, that we lived, loved, dreamed and had our days of power, like puffs of seed, blown away by a wind we knew as friendly. And now, stretching to reach, to gather remains of those distant seeds--through the elders still walking, through our young who stare with distant eyes-- never to know the glory of our tribe, the brightness of the sun on our feathers. The shining prairie and scudding clouds of our universe no longer resonate to their digital beat. The initial bond broken like a dry twig, the flame of our power dimmed, our children will not know each other through the ordinary tasks of those times. Scrambled past in our quest for a better tomorrow, not understanding the power of the plain mud trails that held us together, we have been pushed to the rim of the wheel, no longer central to our vision. The tribe awaits a new formation, a different constellation of another age, our shrouds stand waiting to hear the sound of a clear chime in a cold dawn. These old photos on crumbling pages speak the color of their time, showing what was in snatches of Kodak light, ill-shuttered, peasant-like, beautiful. Europe, America, last century, homestead, depression, war. Our own faces smile from infancy, banal, unknowing; Glorious in Uncle Sam's Stripes and Banners, marching, smiling, victorious capitalism. Will the hopes and dreams of the elders be fulfilled? Or will destruction come in the form of polluted greed . . . What awaits us in this New Age of angels and technology? |
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