It is amazing to me that sometimes people who speak the same language have a hard time communicating to each other, almost as if they need a translator. How much more so will it be when we communicate with our future..."Creations"?
In a salt plain
surrounded by rust-skinned wurms,
sits a woman, pregnant for a thousand years.
Not aging past the tenth month,
mother and child immortal, tired.
grabs her belly, feels pain,
ready to give birth!
But a watchful shadow passes over,
holding back the baby's arrival.
It has done so
since the cities fell,
since the sun turned red,
since the mountains caved in
and the black waters spread.
The woman sings, thinking
of the child she'll never hold,
the son she wont see grow,
ignoring the whines of the shadow,
the whispers of calamity incarnate.
It has kept her alive,
along with others,
women whose motherhood
they can never grasp,
a motherhood trapped inside.
It wont let children again
walk the earth, scream, or play.
It wont let the next generation
replace the old, the old that
spawned it, made it arrive.
The wurms groan, their skin shrieking,
the clouds ever-green shed red hot rain
as blue as the pacific.
The pregnant woman laughs, slightly mad,
slightly vengeful, not knowing what to think.
The shadow, the dark gust,
the cloud of curiosity
tries to decide her thoughts,
to decide their will,
to become both king and lord.
But a king needs a crown,
definitely a translation,
an inheritance, a legacy,
a gift to tomorrow,
most of all...an heir.
Of these, it has
Nothing of the former world
it destroyed makes sense,
Save for the obscure moon,
always haunting its mind,
darkening its nightly journeys,
its walk among inquisitive dreams.
That it knows,
that it understands,
and it tries to convey
what the moon represents
to his perpetual pregnant princesses.
But they cant understand,
anymore than the now extinct flower
understood the bee that gathered from it,
or the little girl that picked it.
Between the women and the shadow, no translation!
other than endless time,
But the women of the world
close their eyes,
ignoring the unfulfilled
ignoring their phantom keeper,
They take breath in,
slowly, savoring the sweet
savoring the ion smell,
the smell of a distant beach.
They meditate, communicating
with their children, their hearts,
speaking in code that the shadow
speaking without need...of translation.
The women of the world
grab their bellies, feel pain,
ready to give birth!
But their watchful shadow passes over,
holding back tomorrow's arrival.