06-21-2022, 04:53 AM
I had posted this poem in early 2021 and had never gotten around to editing it until now. I have taken all the advice give to me here on this site. I cannot find the original thread. Anyway, I have edited down the original version from 1,171 words to 800 words. If anyone finds the original and a moderator can merge the threads, I'd appreciate it. Thanks to all for the initial help.
A Text Lost in Rubble
I.
We have done something we shouldn’t have,
but we do not know exactly what it was.
Our actions must have fallen short of their standards,
or perhaps we have violated their concept of fairness,
for we would never punish ourselves in such a way.
This bad behavior of ours proves that we are bad people with tainted characters, rotten to the core.
II.
We are in constant danger of punishment—
rarely have we turned the electricity on in the building
and taken out the trash at first light,
when we encounter those men already congregating on the street corners and the shipping dock:
but these men are not a part of us,
they are apparently wanderers from the far,
distant edge of the city.
How they have found us amidst a labyrinth of skyscrapers and debris we cannot fathom.
Nevertheless, they have come, and multiply in number as the weeks pass by.
They are not even troubled by the intense heat in the air.
III.
Those men sleep in the gutters
(they detest high rises).
The smoke in the sky has no effect on them.
They clean their guns and sharpen their knives to pass the time.
The sidewalk, once kept so pure, in their hands has become a toilet:
we sweep what we can of their defecation but the next day it has returned,
and we fear the bruises from their heavy fists and the bullets from their guns.
The church officials will not communicate with us
(even though we should be able, we cannot control what others do).
What is more, we are most worthy of condemnation—
therefore, we must have done something bad.
IV.
Each day at first sight of the men,
we flee inside the building and lock the doors.
Even in the burning rain, they will not seek shelter.
We do not speak to them,
and they do not have the ability to read
what we write on paper and tape to the windows.
We have never heard them speak, but through the thick glass
we can hear a gurgling sound from their throats as of a crocodile.
We play music through the speakers to tame them,
but they refuse to be calm.
Sometimes their necks swell up like a frog
and then they scratch in the air with their long, black, fingernails.
Why? Because it is their purpose.
Whatever they scavenge, they destroy and tear to bits.
We cannot call it harmful.
They destroy, and we cannot keep them from doing so.
We shouldn’t be wasting our time combating them anyway.
V.
They have destroyed much of what we own,
and we are now in a very bad way…
we witness how the priest from the old temples grieves in the alley.
At the precise moment he leaves the vicinity,
he is brought back by those strange men,
as if hording him like a slab of meat.
Even the alley cats fall under their influence:
the felines are often seen joining the men
in tracking the priest down like predators and their prey.
(The priest is restless and no longer tries to leave.
And when he has distracted the men away from us,
we do not leave either, for if they catch us,
we cannot speculate what would happen).
VI.
Only days ago, one of the men in green uniform with the stripes on his sleeve
considered that he would dig up the articles the men had horded.
However, he only did it once and not a second time—
now they smear pieces of his body on the windows and run up to the doors,
dragging his body alongside themselves,
and hold the limp corpse by his collar up to the pane.
The stripes have turned red,
and we are now in a very bad way…
VII.
We think we have really seen in the flesh
a glimpse of the elusive Bishop as he stood on the fifth floor
of the high rise across the street.
He is a rare sight to the outside,
spending the days with the clergy in his church quarters.
But this time he was enduring, as it appeared to us,
at our own windows.
(He stared with slouched back at the events before him).
Now the corpses of the dead men who once wore long coats litter the streets.
Their coats have turned crimson and the strange men feast on their flesh and bones.
VIII.
We have failed in our obligation to please everyone around us…
so, we are irritated,
we are overwhelmed,
and we are insecure.
There is only one truth we can find in all of our troubles.
A truth that stands alone in our minds,
and that is this:
We cannot do good if we do not feel this way.
A Text Lost in Rubble
I.
We have done something we shouldn’t have,
but we do not know exactly what it was.
Our actions must have fallen short of their standards,
or perhaps we have violated their concept of fairness,
for we would never punish ourselves in such a way.
This bad behavior of ours proves that we are bad people with tainted characters, rotten to the core.
II.
We are in constant danger of punishment—
rarely have we turned the electricity on in the building
and taken out the trash at first light,
when we encounter those men already congregating on the street corners and the shipping dock:
but these men are not a part of us,
they are apparently wanderers from the far,
distant edge of the city.
How they have found us amidst a labyrinth of skyscrapers and debris we cannot fathom.
Nevertheless, they have come, and multiply in number as the weeks pass by.
They are not even troubled by the intense heat in the air.
III.
Those men sleep in the gutters
(they detest high rises).
The smoke in the sky has no effect on them.
They clean their guns and sharpen their knives to pass the time.
The sidewalk, once kept so pure, in their hands has become a toilet:
we sweep what we can of their defecation but the next day it has returned,
and we fear the bruises from their heavy fists and the bullets from their guns.
The church officials will not communicate with us
(even though we should be able, we cannot control what others do).
What is more, we are most worthy of condemnation—
therefore, we must have done something bad.
IV.
Each day at first sight of the men,
we flee inside the building and lock the doors.
Even in the burning rain, they will not seek shelter.
We do not speak to them,
and they do not have the ability to read
what we write on paper and tape to the windows.
We have never heard them speak, but through the thick glass
we can hear a gurgling sound from their throats as of a crocodile.
We play music through the speakers to tame them,
but they refuse to be calm.
Sometimes their necks swell up like a frog
and then they scratch in the air with their long, black, fingernails.
Why? Because it is their purpose.
Whatever they scavenge, they destroy and tear to bits.
We cannot call it harmful.
They destroy, and we cannot keep them from doing so.
We shouldn’t be wasting our time combating them anyway.
V.
They have destroyed much of what we own,
and we are now in a very bad way…
we witness how the priest from the old temples grieves in the alley.
At the precise moment he leaves the vicinity,
he is brought back by those strange men,
as if hording him like a slab of meat.
Even the alley cats fall under their influence:
the felines are often seen joining the men
in tracking the priest down like predators and their prey.
(The priest is restless and no longer tries to leave.
And when he has distracted the men away from us,
we do not leave either, for if they catch us,
we cannot speculate what would happen).
VI.
Only days ago, one of the men in green uniform with the stripes on his sleeve
considered that he would dig up the articles the men had horded.
However, he only did it once and not a second time—
now they smear pieces of his body on the windows and run up to the doors,
dragging his body alongside themselves,
and hold the limp corpse by his collar up to the pane.
The stripes have turned red,
and we are now in a very bad way…
VII.
We think we have really seen in the flesh
a glimpse of the elusive Bishop as he stood on the fifth floor
of the high rise across the street.
He is a rare sight to the outside,
spending the days with the clergy in his church quarters.
But this time he was enduring, as it appeared to us,
at our own windows.
(He stared with slouched back at the events before him).
Now the corpses of the dead men who once wore long coats litter the streets.
Their coats have turned crimson and the strange men feast on their flesh and bones.
VIII.
We have failed in our obligation to please everyone around us…
so, we are irritated,
we are overwhelmed,
and we are insecure.
There is only one truth we can find in all of our troubles.
A truth that stands alone in our minds,
and that is this:
We cannot do good if we do not feel this way.