Fathers, once standing tall
need also close their eyes
at the beckoning of dusk.
Mothers, who at one point
cradled a budding civilization
lie still in the embrace
of their offspring.
Days shrivel up, die like a Dali picture
in the afterglow of sunset.
generations dissipate, fine
white sand slipping through
slender fingers.
In the distance,
swan songs are heard,
shattering banshee wails of
despair, desolation.
The ground crumbles, implodes
into a black hole of memory and forget.
It is the end of an era, the death of a
generation we once thought immortal.
