In 1967 when the world was young and new
we died a’borning.
Our hope-swept specter left to weep
a burial parade to the new morning
that dreamed us in our dreams, but never wakened.
Oh yes, there was a time brave psyches ranged
open, free to wander.
Oh yes, there was a time exciting, strange,
a paradise to squander.
Oh yes, there was a time when nothing seemed
beyond a new direction.
Oh yes, there was a time, but that day died
bereft of resurrection.
It’s a sad song I’m singing
of ideals we might have realized
if only . . .
A sad song.
Bright leaves blown from drowsing trees
discover they are lonely,
but winter’s coming
& there’s no returning down that road
once the snows have rearranged it.
What happened to our plans for peace,
for sharing bount beyond belief
for blazoning the dawn with youthful fire . . .
This millennium deems us old
withered spider webs of gold
spun so fine that none would think to see us.
Our voice is gone.
Our flame denied.
And all that echoed deep inside our heart
to march eternal now eludes us.
In spiraling we’ve lost our thread.
We’ve grown to be the age to dread.
Like this last poem, we soon are dead,
I weep for the child almost born.
She showed a promise now unfulfilled.
Perhaps someday again may she find us.