In the distance, a howl is heard, a deep threatening roar
in the silence of the darkened world.
That long sound echoing through the valley floor,
echoes of the past bounce around the rocks,
and the heartbeat of man pumps once again.
Fearful of the sound of the carnivore that feasts
upon the souls of the weak and impoverished,
grinding them to dust as he salivates upon the morsels.
The cold hearted killer of dreams that stalks,
crawling uninvited into the nightmares of men,
and crushes hopes of freedom from the turgid existence.
Damns the under caste to the periphery of Hades,
climbing ever higher on the golden staircase
carved from the sweat and blood of the insignificant.
In the distance the howl continues,
drowning out the pleas for equality and recognition,
damning all to their place in the underworld,
their pitiful role in the play acted out on distant stages,
carpeted corridors of opulence and ignorance.
Fighting dogs battle over the skeletal remains
of a land once proud, once strong, once vibrant.
Every broken promise, every shattered dream,
In the night the howl continues, but the fear is gone,
whispers struggle to find their voice, to find their place,
and in the undergrowth new shoots are formed,
new alliances forged, new belief discovered,
the battle for this land has just begun.
© Fergus Martin