The night it descends, softly
like the curtain of dew on a world stifled
by the claustrophobia of dust and heat.
The retreat has been sounded
and the footsteps march in perfect symphony
to that eternal call of sleep.
And somewhere deep inside that chasm
where civilizations have blossomed and been forgotten
lies a more ancient music
that softens the ceaseless pounding of time.
For only in sleep can the city-man reconcile
himself to his meaningless day.
Here he walks in a strange murky land
of brown shadows with no past and no future.
But the city-man, he proudly forgets,
that sleep was not to be the gift of man.
It began with the flow of time and despite its
music and its rhyme, it will stop
whenever it can.
they will look around at the world in awe and despair.
Desiccated to bare bones, they will call upon
their supermarket gods for repair.
And then they shall be reminded that
before the foundations of their iron cities were forged
and before their tall towering towers were put up.
There abounded lands and winds
more ancient and serene.
And they shall be reminded that
even within the vacant neon dreams of their deep city
there live other men –
a lesser race
who do not need sleep to comfort their return to oblivion.
00:06 AM
8th February, 2010
