We’ve forgotten those dear angels of our ancient days
who once remembered us, concerned.
Who can fail to notice
that they leave us now, in quietness, alone;
We, whose foolish hubris
never ceases to astound them?
Once told, “be not afraid for God is with you”;
now our fears are merely left to us;
The ones we manufacture, those legitimate,
we’ve cultivated from within, without.
We recall their frightful beauty, terrible,
the messengers, once hailed, now doubtful met;
Their weeping from the cosmic plane,
the flood of tears from just behind the veil,
Ignored, they justly wash their hands of us;
their lamentations echoing, their cries,
The weaving of their soft designs once cherished
and now so willfully disposed of.
We recite the wounded song, what might have been,
of what once was, or yet may be our fate.
With futile hope the gardener plants the seed,
knowing of the coming early frost;
The drought ahead that cynically awaits;
the song that plucks these bones so bent in labor.
Such solemn tears bleed down instead of rain,
here among the grieving sentinels.
In the loam, a love lays softly weeping
remembering what sacrifice will meet
One who labors, sorely mocked,
against the power of death
to cultivate a garden of ungrateful thorns.
(c) 2016, Karekin M Yarian, BSG