The Morning Of Hope
The morning of hope had vanished behind flag-striped booths
where dotted ballots erased a republic with pock marks
made on a paper wall by a firing squad, millions strong.
Darkness descended before the sun could rise; a horizon of avarice and fear
shading the beacon on the hill and the golden lamp welcoming the
tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to be free.
The people spoke the sentence that doomed their freedom;
the irony lost with loss of the dream once
held by those who said it.
Time backwards does not flow,
Molding a future from a history once lived
never lives again.
The past, is but a fading mirage,
a lifeless icon offering nothing but the semblance
of a bygone remembrance.
The dictated day will be long.
Where no sun rises, no sun will set.
Eventually, the sun will rise on a day not dictated,
but when and on what will it shine?
Norm
November 6, 2024
