The sun rises over the red horizon,
and sets again as the red clouds roll in;
The moon which had once shone so bright
can hardly be seen through the smokey night;
No more do the stars shine as they had before,
and the smokey red sky seems easier to ignore;
Red tinted buildings crowd around the one place
which seems (for now) unaffected by the waste
of the threatening endless sea of dry red sand
and the harsh hot wind that burns the dying land;
Hidden behind the stone walls of that red city
sits an old man, huddled in a chair, mumbling: "Pity ...
Oh, the pity of it all ..." and talks of things that used to be
To tired dusty children perched around his knee;
He watches their intense delight as he tells his tales
of a different world (not too long ago) without hot gales,
of how that world used to flourish in lushous green
- a colour which has never since on this earth been seen -
of how that land was covered by the most beautiful flowers,
and of how he, as a child, used to while away the hours
in fragrant fields of green grass and tall trees spread about;
He told of animals which not too long ago had roamed about;
He told takes of soft white rabbits, of ferocious lions and tigers;
He told tales of history, of adventure and deadly dangers;
And then he'd fall quiet and smile at the children sadly
as they looked up at him expectantly;
Then he tells them in his own special way
of how such a beautiful world became what it was today:
"Oh, the pity of it all ... We had it all those yesterdays,
but we were selfish so we threw it all away!"
Then the story-teller of yesterdays would sigh in despair,
snuggle up comfortably, and doze off in his rocking- chair ...
☆Written in 1990☆
☆still gives me goose flesh today☆