"Time covers up what it has done,
Chaos settles to the rear end of memory
And scenes dissolve into shadows and myth."
"Lives wander away from their start,
Hoping to forget whole parts of their past."
The peaceful clouds above the peak,
The spotless skies afore that heavenly sight.
The world still has places untouched by ideology,
There is still beauty to take one’s breath away.
You see them bundled in wool,
It’s not cold, neither is there trade.
The colours of time are stuck in their flow,
They don’t seem to care about the distant smoke.
In this trough, flowers never lose colour.
Neither dust nor fog mars the air.
The people of the valley haven’t yet heard
About the truths of industry, and the intoned lies.
A day here is born as innocent blue;
It rises to yellow at its peak.
The paint wears off to sienna
As day turns to night, with its glow travelling west.
A year ends silently in the vale,
Another creeps on the old.
Never has a person here been killed,
They’ve only died in peace.
** * **
‘Twas quiet, not a wind, not a movement;
Still, gentle ripples caressed the lake.
Sitting by the fireside and scratching her dog’s ear,
A child senses the animal’s quickening breath.
The girl rises and goes to a window.
She sees the lake: calm from afar,
Smoke rising from beyond the vale:
One of many peaceful signs of life.
Three raps on the door, and a pause.
Three raps again, and silence.
The girl answers the door, sees nobody about,
The dog rushes out, she follows.
Tim stops abruptly at the centre of the street,
She kneels next to him and looks around.
A low rumble, now rising feverishly.
The world around her swayed and fractured.
Temples cracked at their base,
Houses flattened into a mat of bricks and dust.
Quiet was distorted, screams rent the air,
Impossible weights crushed those beneath;
Some tried, some nearly, almost all died.
The lake threw up waves that lashed its shore.
More smoke steadily climbed the air.
Eventually both would clear, both would settle.
Tears turn her eyes moist with loss,
She hugs her dog, he licks her in return.
She stands, turning, taking in the scene
And finally sets off towards the lake.
As the sun readies to depart from the horizon,
The girl wonders, perched on a rock near the lake
About who knocked on her door,
Three times, and three times again.
Time would pass, seasons would change.
At some point, white would overwhelm colour,And black would be seen as dots, heads and stones.