The past calls,
old paths overgrown,
a century receding
that looked forward
to years numbered
like this one
in awe, but was
the better place,
the flawed paradise
lost and this some
global Purgatory
on the descent
into Hell.
The lost
past calls, and one
would rise unhesitant
and walk back
into those years,
to lose oneself
in paths under felled trees,
returning to people
then the pillars of being,
now under this
cold night's snow
dreamless,
as suffering
people die under bombs
in this bleak planetary
dystopia, the wasteland
devouring all
our millions of years.
11.01.2026
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