Dawn Will Come Again

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Dawn Will Come Again

As our globe rolls towards the Sun,
our horizon flames into dawn.

The old white men
dour, dreary and dull,
have again succeeded in holding back
the fresh, vibrant, resplendent visions
of our young;
and have kept their arid world —
their gray, turgid, moneyed world —
safe from their worst fears:

the fear of
the magical power of women,
those incomprehensible creatures
that enthrall them so,
and own the womb of creativity;

the fear of
the fast scintillating rainbow of alertness
rampant
among the young, dark, numinous people
whose intense unfathomable awareness
is so confusing and uncontrollable.

But, once again, they have prevailed
in holding back the outbreak of rebirth:

so relieved
to have slowed to a standstill
the efflorescence
of those perennial human aspirations
that give warmth to the soul;

so relieved
to have kept their world safe for:
productivity, gains, exemptions,
well-funded exclusivity,
civility from the service class,
deference
from intellectuals, scientists, artists;

so relieved
in their continuing placid drift
of supreme satisfaction,
without impudent, jarring interruptions
of scorching reality;

so relieved,
as oblivious as possible in existences
completely superfluous
to the life of the human spirit.

As always, we await a new dawn.

I want to drink ambrosia,
like Apollo.
I want my mind clear,
I want my spirit drunk,
so I can regale you
with my lyrical dreams
of impossible happiness.

The dry leaves of exhausted summer
must brown, shrivel and fall
from dead brittle limbs
to crinkle underfoot,
beneath winter snows,
before a moistening thaw can return
budding hopes new and green.

And so,
praise be to the glory of youth:
dawn will come again.

5 October 2018

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