In descent from the Clouds
The Sun, the light that shines upon our fields, the air we breathe, all is one.
It bestows wealth unto the king, that is the fruit of our labour,
given to us in-exchange of the crop—the cycle comes to close.
The ill recover during the day, and pick their shovels to work again.
Air tends to follow the weather, and the attendance of the sun:
sparse and blight when cold, insufferable in summer,
but for a couple weeks every year, splatters of rain—the downpour yields the crop.
“God, you’ve really saved us all,”
They’d say as loud declarations, self-affirmative prayers and processions.
“...you brought light along as you came,”
Was it the sun that arose untimely one day, or the town clock that went off?
Does the spoken word possess the same might as arms?
Faith never completed its course,
custom was far from being restored, empathy was sparsely found—
people seldom congregated aside from the inevitable dates,
rarely, around a house crumbled, desolate,
the infant mourned their mother's loss—
there was no saving grace for them, just impending death as night came along
and wolves glared from their hides, a chance to strike!
A faint trail of dried blood lingered in the church’s path.
The infant hadn't been heard for hours, but that was for the best perhaps—
who would strip themselves bare and feed the child?
By morning, processions were set to start again, in crude indifference.
The moral scripture had become illegible, old to most,
but exerted great influence on people regardless.
It was then inherited by the most assuming,
competent townsmen, aiding in their cause, of surplus, exploitation,
and segregation of men.
No one dared to follow the trail, or raise concerns,
or complaint about their meager status and wage.
The procession did start again, but it’d certainly suffered by the event:
losing its sheen to chatter—scratches, and indents.
Rebirth of this town was still a distant dream, but the expecting women,
and some fiery teens had begun to contemplate the state.
I quietly watched in anxiety, in disguise,
following the trail to the child being brutally ravaged
by the wolves and the saints—
one in the hubris of the catch of its prey,
and the other clothed, holy, and yet plagued by deviance, corruption and theft.
However horrified I was, I couldn't walk any closer to them,
and turned away instead,
heading back to the mall road, waiting for a stranger who was still astray,
and righteous enough to command change.
The town was perpetually barren then,
rotting in apathy, misery, and lust.
I too then walked back to my abode,
maneuvering it back into the sky, bringing along a new day,
hoping for a communal uprise.