Echoes of Cassandra’s Desperate Keen
Summers fall and winters weep, waiting for a renaissance that may not come again. It always has though, at least so far, but not always in time for us all.
It’s been a long dark winter; not a season but an epoch. The whole world’s been touched although most strongly the primordial cradles, ravaged by the West, by usurpers and heirs of Abraham’s thrones, the brightest and the darkest we humans have to offer.
The North, apparently fading into twilight, convulses, spreading spasms of terror throughout the human spectrum, not realizing how seriously ill it is or how little wealth it has left. The patient East watches smiling, even snickering at times, knowing its time seems about to come again; … after so long.
The South slumbers. Deceptively still, but not peacefully; fitfully rather, as though mired in vivid dreams; almost like an embryo awaiting nativity.
Trapped in the middle, dread reins; fear is the coin of the decade, division, alienation, estrangement. Everyone but the grim reapers joyously harvesting their well tended crops, nurtured in blood and suffering, and growing almost uncontrolled, like weeds strangling less aggressive brethren.
It’s a frosty time to grow old; a lifetime of planning and saving blowing in frigid arctic storms. It happened so suddenly; or so at least it seemed, although if we’d listened we might have heard the echoes of Cassandra’s desperate keen. But even if we’d listened, what could we have done?
Summers fall and winters weep, it’s been a long and lonely decade. But Luna and Sol still rise and set and the stars continue their eternal sweep.
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahé, Manizales 2010; all rights reserved