May 29th, 2011

The Mark

Thus ends the world, as an error of vanity,
For our departure is not the ending, not
Even particularly unusual, not
A new beginning.
Soon, the maggots’ feast is over, soon
The vines have covered up the bones and greened
The broken walls, the mounds of steel and glass
Not for the first time now, but for the last.
The sword that kept it has been put to rest,
Within the ancient garden all is still,
Calm now that none are there who need to hide
Their shame amongst the trees.
After a while no sight reminds of our presence,
And yet the earth will always bear our mark,
Whispered sometimes by the leaves in the breeze:
The names we gave it all, so long ago.