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Our Future in the Past
By
Rusty Broadspear
Praying for our dying rose,
Standing on the sacred hill,
Midnight shroud and moonlight goes,
So quiet, so warm, so still.
The seventh day might let us be
A crowd without one mind,
Away from sad humility,
Our love and peace to find.
We send vibrations through the air
To years away in time,
No children listening to our prayer,
No end, no clock, no time.
Tear out our hearts and let us see
What mould has settled there,
Inject, dissect and break us free.
Yet still we stand and stare.
Thunder, Lord, oh thunder,
We hear beneath our feet,
We beg and plea and wonder,
To what foul end we'll meet.
A nightmare of a dream,
An ending of a life,
A dying rose, it may seem
Is finished with a knife.
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