DEATH OF A PROMISE
The game is over.
Only dust exited, some say. Even the rock wasn´t so big.
The wind just carried away a puff of dirt Heavenwards
sprinkling the fields with old Earth ash.
Others still tried to build it up
but we were told to move along, and did.
“Nothing to see here”.
They were right.
A nothing that promises is still naught.
And a promise given and not kept sours
in the mouths of the spitters of curses and creeds alike.
“Deliver the goods!” they shout.
They have a point.
Barren trees cast spindly shadows across old olive fields.
The sun, unusually bright, oppressive as ever.
No one walks the roads.
A dog chews on broken lamb bones
in the thin shade between houses.
Later, comparing notes beside the fire
we wondered about the doves.
There had never been so many…