Poetry

The Centuries

Rod Moran

 

Last century’s sunsets
Were the strident colour
Of libraries burning.

Against a red back cloth,

Human silhouettes
Hung like charred wind-chimes.

The moon rose bone-white,

Seeping dew and tears.

Laughter was garrotted.

In love with abstractions,

Writers executed
Skilful evasions.

 

The new century dawned,

Strangely familiar,
With towers aflame.

The intellectuals,
Dizzy with insight,
Linked arms in the street.

Across scarified sands

The century advances,

Like a cavalry column

Billowing poison dust.
It rolls black thunder
Toward each happy city.