igh after sigh
as we stand on quicksand
while anarchy constructs its dagger
from the broken pieces of the nationís sword,
and construct its flag
from the torn pieces of the nationís garment.
And our fears are being played upon
the same way
the Sheppard dog frightens the flock
reminding them of the lurking wolves.
Like the lily,
we wither in sunlight
and bloom beneath the dew
to confuse the invisible trailers
whose crunching feet we hear
but do not see.
Should we not
protect the testament of our liberties
from those who are poised
to brave the thunders and affront the abyss
like Prometheus in his quest to know and possess?
A retrospective excursion
into the remote dusty archives of history
shows a rebirth of events centuries gone,
of which no lesson have been learned.
Seems as if we are faced with a riddle
without an answer
of which none solution
would drag us to the whirlpool of vertigo,
a prelude to a descent
into the oblivion of catacomb.
July 21, 2014