crumbling walls in a deteriorated village
the sentiment builds by the minute
and every minute
a new tower fumbles.
All it would take for the ending of this destruction
is one hand to grab another
and hold it together.
The lights are flickering out
on every window
on every corner
in every house
and the widows
and the children of the widows
and the dolls of the children of the widows
are all frozen in silence.
There are already no hands to hold
the streets are crumbling
though they were once paved with gold,
or so it is said.
You cry, and worry about the dead
and say the world IS coming to an end.
But i say think in this case
to the past
the world has ended long ago
the earth has been dead for years
the real thing you fear
is that the seeing will be blinded
or the blinded will be seeing
and those who have not already
will stop believing