by Nick Gisburne
The sun, extinguished, yields its final rays.
The engine of eternity is dead.
Each smudge of life, suspended in the haze,
Is lost to time, or, in the fog, has fled.
We walk upon a carpet of the stars,
Where trivial concerns, forgotten, fade.
A swarm of sequins, gypsy avatars,
In exodus we wander, cold, afraid.
A book of rumours, scribbled gibberish,
Gives hope, perhaps too little, or too much.
For we who dream, who taste the faith, the wish,
A new religion rises at our touch.
We mourn for what has passed, the dying light,
But look, with brave belief, beyond the night.
