Endless

 

“Don't look at me, voyeur!

she demanded, no, pleaded:

Did you really believe my mind

insufficiently kind to qualify

for admission to Dante's unholy

inferno?

C'mon then! Start the car and

let's go. Let's fire it across Italy,

that ready-made nest of vipers,

and of lambs.

Let's seek out the majesty

of lofty cathedrals, hollowed out

by ancient rains, lying deep and asleep,

underground in their limestone sanctuary,

where the bats offer false salvation

or a fatal fall from their highest steeples.

WAIT! STOP!!

Did you hear that distant wail?

It resonates through the mantle

like a rawhide drumhead.

That's the old people,

a few left over from Hiroshima;

“Please, PLEASE”

they beg, “do not forget us

in your thoughts and dreams;

we are still here, and always will be”.

You see, they know they're trapped,

like flightless bats on a Sisyphean task,

rolling tiny boulders into eternity: condemned

to watch their loved ones disappear,

like a docco about 2020 – but in slow motion.

 

The Peace Memorial's Genbaku Dome

is silent in the sunshine.