Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

Once, long ago


Once, long ago,
The future foretold
We formed
At least our progenitors did

A marvel of nature’s
Inexorable force
Majestic

Just as Darwin prophesied
Not long ago
Deep in the mists of time
False paleontologists
Hardly find the trace
Of when we climbed from trees
Gave up their greeny grip
And walked, all fours
Upon the ground
And then, as if by miracle,
But much happens in that way,
With the course of time
Over billions of years
By our reckoning
We are told
We do not know
And maybe never will
Emerged our species
Called, Linnaeus-like
Homo sapiens
What a name!

To forage, hunt, gather
Survive where others did not
Through ages iced
Innumerable
Oh, yes, their trace
Remains.

And so we began
Not long ago
Animals and crops to husband
A cornucopia, surplus
We stored
Built up tall towers
To Gods we could not see
Knowing in our souls
That some power lies
Beyond our Earth-bound
Ken.

And still this is true
Even now

Not humbled despite
Of humility none

In these later times
We sailed in ships we made,
No bigger than walnuts
Frail
Guided by stars we foretold
Mysteries
And found
Lands far beyond our homes
Conquered, enslaved,
Killed with mass destruction
Those we could not.

Colonized to our greedy good
But not to these we regarded
As not worthy of our kind
Wiped from the face of their land
All trace of how they had lived
Our’s supreme
Our God, Gods, told us so.

And so,
In due course of time,
We built by degree and decree
That world in which we now live
And spoil heedless in our race, our race.

But still not satified
We reach
Beyond Gravity’s grip
As did we those trees of old
To leap, one foot at a time,
Those stars we have seen and watched
From the time of our birth and remain
To colonize them
And wreak on them the same destruction
We have on ours
Us mighty, mighty man
Species
Gods maybe.

But frail
Of which we hardly cognizant are
Our time will come
Not with an ice age again
But a fiery one
To burn us up
And of us then
No trace
Will remain.

Fruitless futility
No?

Malcolm D B Munro
Friday 6 April, 2018

 

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Filed under: Arts, Media, Music, poetry, songs, stories

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