The Rebuilding
The horse-drawn plow breaks ground
Beside the rusted tractor.
No one remembers when last it ran,
Or when last there was fuel for it.
Homespun cloth and leather is to be had
For those with the means to barter for it.
Barnyards sprout through asphalt,
Where narrow farms grow just enough,
And maybe a little more.
No soldiers have come in many an age.
Old weapons rust and older ones
Regain their relevance.
The aged ones say the last days were dark
Before the fall that came.
Those who died did not know how to live,
Falling helpless to their dependency.
Some lived for a while by taking
Until there was nothing left to take.
Some were enslaved, while others;
They sold themselves, willingly.
Many simply broke down,
Having believed the sweet lies
that promised assured security,
Trusting the wolves to safeguard the sheep.
They died, still incredulous
While their substance was devoured.
Still, others hid in their towers of glass,
Pretending to the end that all was well,
And that they were the wise and good.
The few who saw the truth took the time
To prepare themselves, learn the old ways,
Armed themselves against the chaos,
Kept their heads down while judgment rolled.
They were the remnant, they who survived
By the strength of their own arms
And the resolution of their hearts.
They determined to be neither victims nor slaves.
Now they replant, reclaim, and rebuild,
Sifting through the abandoned artifacts
Of a culture collapsed in upon itself
Of its own contradictions.
History judges harshly the hubris of each age.
Babels rise and fall, yet always a remnant
Is left to pick up the pieces.
Maybe this time they will get it right.
Beside the rusted tractor.
No one remembers when last it ran,
Or when last there was fuel for it.
Homespun cloth and leather is to be had
For those with the means to barter for it.
Barnyards sprout through asphalt,
Where narrow farms grow just enough,
And maybe a little more.
No soldiers have come in many an age.
Old weapons rust and older ones
Regain their relevance.
The aged ones say the last days were dark
Before the fall that came.
Those who died did not know how to live,
Falling helpless to their dependency.
Some lived for a while by taking
Until there was nothing left to take.
Some were enslaved, while others;
They sold themselves, willingly.
Many simply broke down,
Having believed the sweet lies
that promised assured security,
Trusting the wolves to safeguard the sheep.
They died, still incredulous
While their substance was devoured.
Still, others hid in their towers of glass,
Pretending to the end that all was well,
And that they were the wise and good.
The few who saw the truth took the time
To prepare themselves, learn the old ways,
Armed themselves against the chaos,
Kept their heads down while judgment rolled.
They were the remnant, they who survived
By the strength of their own arms
And the resolution of their hearts.
They determined to be neither victims nor slaves.
Now they replant, reclaim, and rebuild,
Sifting through the abandoned artifacts
Of a culture collapsed in upon itself
Of its own contradictions.
History judges harshly the hubris of each age.
Babels rise and fall, yet always a remnant
Is left to pick up the pieces.
Maybe this time they will get it right.