Wednesday, April 17, 2013

On the Earth Here Below

When everyone has fled, 
And when everything has been said... 
The last hunger will be fed. 
The children are put to bed. 

The last bride and groom will wed. 
All the gold will turn to lead. 
Two will walk the straights of dread. 
A fire burns hot in my head. 

As the sun starts turning red, 
And we will all be dead...
On the Earth here below.
On the Earth that turns slow. 
Where all miseries flow. 
In the land all the sages know. 
Where all the rains go. 
In the mountains high and the valleys low. 
Where the cold wind blow, 
Ripped by the undertow. 
All in a nice neat row.
On the world we think is round,
Where nothing was ever found,
Above or below the ground,
Not even a sound... 

Like when the kings were first crowned 
In the great forests abound.

Where the wicked pressures hound, 
On a small dark, wet, mound,
When time will not astound.
Because the clock was never wound...
In this time of ours,
Of rusting cars,
And glass towers,
Built by dark powers.
Of spiders and flowers...
Under the blue acid showers.
On the Earth here below.
© Robert Barbere