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,
strengthens,
emboldens,
nourishes,
frees.
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
Aug
2013
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