The Savage Rain & the Silent Fire by Wayne Saalman

 

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All through the long dark day the gray clouds swept over

the cresting waters of the bay, the news as relentless as the rain

with its coronavirus and its dire death toll rising, its stock markets

plunging, its global oil war pouring fuel on the flames of our

collective economic and emotional meltdown – and, yes, it felt

as if all hell was being unleashed and hope was nowhere

to be seen, and the collapse into dystopia was, at last, complete.

 

How, I wondered, do we keep our spirits up when the cup itself

carries the poison, never mind the contents of the chalice

or the malice of some brazen bad-ass operating in the flesh

as opposed to that which is invisible and passes unseen.

 

What befalls us in the raw cut of time, binds us to a series

of events which we call history, which we call fate, which we

call the way of the world with its parade of births and deaths,

its good and evil, its endless weave of change and charge, fact

and fiction, knowns and unknowns, paradox and contradiction.

 

Suddenly, the danger zone is everywhere: a war at the front

in every home, every school, in every shop, factory and office.

 

“It’s as if we are playing Russian Roulette now

with an invisible pistol.”

 

This shall pass, at last, however, as all pandemics must,

though our cynicism will haunt us for years, and we shall

worry from time to time as we rush along to the next enticement,

the next excitement, the next crisis, proffering our prayers,

sharing our hopes and chasing our dreams, while our reeling

planet spins on, revolving upon its great seamless axis

of eternal renewal, bending gravity, space-time

and humanity itself to a life so mysterious and infinite

in scope that only poetry can hint

at its full magnitude and total magnificence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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