he held his pants up with a drawstring
he stared at me as mystified as I at him
"who are you?" he demanded, "how are you
partly here in these ruins where the river
runs blood, partly somewhere else
I can almost see behind you
some place like the fairyland the old ones tell
come! step fully into my world
dare its winds, its thirsts, its dirt
perpetually blowing. tell me the wonders
of your world, or better yet, show me the path
into your world
"I..." I stammered "I...
I thought you were a dream, a ghost
a figment of some war past, or some war now
I expected the echo of guns, planes dropping bombs
something to explain the devastation of your city
how strangely it reminds me of mine"
"don't be silly," the apparition said, "we fight no wars
not because we do not want them but because
we have no energy to spare on wars
the old ones tell of engines, fuel, water
and yes, of guns and bombs, and make them sound
both dreadful and enchanting, but we have none
we chase the green as it retreats
and those of us us who catch enough of it
live to chase another day; your world
the glimpses I see of it, has green to spare
to waste; I think perhaps yours is the old ones' world
and you one of the wastrels who would do nothing to save it
to protect it, to pass it on; if so, be damned
this is the world you left and we your inheritors"
he faded as I suppose I did
the alarm went off and unlike most mornings I rose
glad to leave my dream
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