A flock of geese
Fly under a grey sky,
The fields are damp,
The streets are wet.

The cities are barren,
Grey steel glass
Cement towers
And blocks
Crushed by
Coiling bitumen
Streets,
Fleets of
Fishing boats
Bobbing
In abandoned
Harbours
Covered
By oil slicks.

Zombie ghosts
With hollowed eyes
Walking through
Derelict country
Towns and fallow
Fields.

Creaking windmills,
Rusted metallic sentinels
Standing guard
Over vast red desert sands
Looking to the west.

Giant steel factories
On the edge
Of dying towns
Breathing fire
Like dragons
Filling the sky
With black smoke,
And the ancient
Sages with
Bony fingers
Walking the
Sacred way
Searching
For the
Oracle,
Searching
For sacred
Prophecy.

Yet the voices
Are silent,
They speak
No more;
The muses are dead,
The prophets are dead,
The gods are dead,
We stand alone
In an empty
Universe
On a crowded
World.

 *******************************

With a digital drawing from Nikos Laios

********************************

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