POETRY

Guilty in the pleasure of
not fanning the coals of war,
of not being there,
not holding my voice over
the governing of
my poor countrymen,

I look down, below my feet,
below the curve of the ground,
at the dark Colosseum
being built over Babylon
stone by red stone,
all new, yet fallen.

I look at the Silk Road,
its caravans unloading
now just drugs and guns
where once flowed dried fruit
and hope chests filled with
fabrics to behold.

Reading my dusty books
in this dark age of
Communication,
all I see is the blood of
men: human sacrifice
as it was foretold.

Tired of all this bickering,
all the countries at
their neighbor's throat,
of watching in horror
our inflamed Donya.

Where or when is
another golden age?
Open borders, commerce,
merchants and lovers riding
from Balkh to Konya?

jam10