man and beast.

Far in the sky, above the rainbow's walk,
sits an old man, who is prone to talk
of things even older than his pale, pale eyes:
of religions and gods sketched in white chalk.

His equally wizened dog never moves
but to rest his head on the old man's shoes;
silent companion in the ancient vignette
to shelter his owner from the pain of our ruse.

For our guilt is etched in a thousand lines
of ages past, deep in the mines
where our fidelity has been excavated --
we ignored every aid, forgot all his signs;

we prayed for a time that was long since lost --
a time when the old man predicted the cost
of our murder, our greed our incessant hatred
and how every turning gear turned to rust.

The man and his dog watch endlessly on,
never blinking as they realised their world was now gone.
Up in flames it went, like everything else:
a hell that was far more than centuries long.

Far in the sky, above the rainbow's walk,
sits a man and his dog, the first prone to talk
of the peace that he'd had, and that we never will
as he cries gentle tears but vows not to balk

in the face of our tyranny, lessons we'll learn
of the life that we led and how it must burn
like the beautiful place he knew before,
so that we may earn
our place there once more.