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by Jan Sand
2018-03-30 08:38:53
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There will come a day long years from now
When the sandy desert wind will whistle to itself.
No footprints dotting lines across the dunes.
All memories of Man put on the shelf.
contr00001_400No more the candy wrappers dance along the road
Nor empty beer cans glisten in the night
To softly clink and hoot in gusty breezes.
Cardboard boxes banished from all sight.
Brick will fracture, crumble back to clay,
Their trellises of steel will rust away.
No more apartments stacked like  packages
In some mad marketing array.
Concrete roads will crack, becoming rocks.
Funguses and moss will fill the gaps.
Mice and birds scurry past the pole
Where an ancient traffic sign still slaps.
Tall trees erect their magic structure,
Sink sucking mouths to kiss the earth deep down.
Spread green eyes to meet the morning sun.
Seas of dandelions flood downtown.
Small reservoirs of elephants, big cats,
Re-infect the forests with their grace,
Forage in and out through columned aisles
While branches make cathedrals out of lace.
Ocean-wise the seagulls dip and rise
Like soaring eyebrows off in search of eyes.
The seas are full of carnivals of whales.
No hooks nor nets nor harpoons terrorize.
No oil that blackens seabirds’ wings
To bury pleading eyes in gummy straw.
Blue water glints and flaps against the sun.
Gone, hulls that dive and slide and yaw.
Here and there an old reactor core,
Silent, lightless, tasteless, without smell
Inflames the skin of Earth with sterile death
Like splinters risen straight from central Hell.
The canisters that roll beneath the sea
Crack and split to spill their glowing gifts.
Dead blotches on soft muds and sands
Which slowly kills. Relentlessly it drifts.
These are the monuments to Man,
The zenith that he’s left behind.
When Stonehenge and the pyramids are dust,
Small creatures will they maim and kill and blind.
The ship of Earth has heeled and slowly rights.
The disaster that was Man has passed away.
The tapestry of life reweaves itself.
Celestial Spring has come and it is May.
Predators still make their deadly hunts.
It’s one on one by tooth and claw and wing.
Each creature kills by inborn skills.
Murder has become a home made thing.
No more millions die at one man’s stroke
To make cosmetics, or, perhaps, a joke.
Forests do not fall for gossip’s sake.
Life is blessed by human Ragnarok.
The strangest thing is that Man’s demise
Was done by Man with no assist.
As if he knew the blight he was.
It’s certain that he won’t be missed.


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