On the Fortieth Day
“On the fortieth day the earth was still bleeding”
but there were no prayer meetings at the White House.
The calamity had been the work of men.
The Leader, with a mandate from Heaven, could do nothing.
Without their prayers, their festivals, or their sacred dances,
the people felt helpless, betrayed.
With no way to help, they could not sleep.
Without the sleep that comes from lying on a peaceful earth,
the people dreamt by day.
Their own phantoms chased them.
In the forest, that fed them,
the dead piled up unburied–
No one performed the rites.
On the forty-first day the earth was still bleeding.
One comment
Leave a comment
cforms contact form by delicious:days
Retort posts
Gabriel writes:
Let this poem be impressed upon on a small stone tablet, and placed in a cracked boulder on top of a mountain, so that one day, the others who follow our species might find it, and know some faint solace when they ask, “Did our ancestors care for their world?”
Thanks for this, Mr. Pendell.
June 7th, 2010 at 6:00 pm