They were a quiet people
who lived on an island
made of kindness,naivety
and a little laziness
who fed of on the spirit
of the times .
The gods were not very demanding
not requiring sacrifices .
Everywhere round fragrant fruits abounded .
And also the fish in the lagoon .
It was a small island dancing in the trade winds
where the girls were beautiful and fertile .
The ocean's waves came to mingle
with the white sand of the shore .
Then was indeed and old volcano
but it has been dormant for so long .
The cheeky kids came
and pulled its beard ,laughing ...
the warriors were strong and peaceful,
competing only in manly contests
under the king's benevolent gaze...
The elders told the legend of a past
when it rained for 3 millions years !
Everyone listening,huddled round
the fire place...
It was only a drop in the memory of time,
Did they know how to count beyond ?
But fortunately the wizzard
watched out over the whimsical clouds ...
Did he know that beyond the horizon
there were other people who thought
they were alone in the world,
who told them the legends of a book
written in an obscure language of fear .
One morning a large sail apparead ,
carried by a foul wind .
From the great ship descended
a god with stormy eyes and iron heart .
No need for a forbidden garden .
History open the door of knowledge.
Without even to seduce ,
the serpent succeeds in its gamble...
My little island has become a tax haven
for Manhattan wizzards who no longer
watch the capricious clouds ...
The ghost of the warriors roam
the polluted beaches
where the sated bellies of believers
commune ...
The old volcano feels a dull anger
rising within it .
the ocean womb gives birth
to children of the deep .
Breaking the humiliating symbol
of the torn puppet .
Appears the radiant face
of the forgotten gods ...
The manger will be empty .
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: December 13th, 2025 11:49
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell, Sealgair
Online)
Comments3
To begin with a true people and end with an empty fable is the beauty of the phone. A lovely write Lorenz
A population brutally ethocided .
Sad like the Taino Indians that rescued Columbus and he enslaved
Naivety does not appear as a flaw; rather, it reveals itself as a form of wisdom, one that has no need to justify its right to exist through violence or fear. Even the volcano, ancient and potentially destructive, has slept for so long that children can laugh at it. Danger exists, but it does not rule; it is woven into the order of things. The turning point comes beyond the visible horizon, where another way of thinking takes shape, one that sees itself as the only truth and therefore has no need for dialogue. An excellent poem.
If your god scares you then you might as well share it with others !
You have written a poem about a world that has been stripped of its voice.
I also think of the magnificent Maori people and how many others...
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