Finding The Ouroboros

The world has nearly reached its end,

Crumbled into no more than dust and ashes.

The skies are bleak and hollow as they die,

Reflecting our empty souls within.

Where stand the last traces of our lost greatness, I see

The wisps of times long gone and destroyed.

I feel the accusing pain and grief

Of the ones we wronged and belied.

I see there the mother with her dying child,

Who was promised a cure, like a boon

But to whom the promise was never fulfilled,

Then she withers away, and is gone.

I see the old man, with his rasping cough,

Whom his children abandoned long ago,

I feel the agony and the unfeigned hatred,

Then he too disappears, forgotten.

But the one vision, that always haunts me the most,

Is of that little, forlorn girl child,

In her torn, blackened frock she stands, head bowed,

With a little, white drooping flower bud…

I hate the ones who destroyed so many worlds!

Who devastated everything to prove their might!

I hate them with all my soul and heart,

For my heart reaches out to the lost, the shattered.

I know that all is not lost yet,

I know that I hold within me a power profound,

All I must know is how I must reach out

And reclaim for those tormented souls what is rightfully theirs.

And as I look down at the last lonely figure-

The little girl with her dying white flower-

I take her by the hand, and lead her home; for I know

For her, I shall recreate the world, to let her little flower bloom.