Minstrel

There is no minstrel,

only the song,

as we stretch
our ears to hear:

the Exaltation,

the lost Passion,

the Falling

of the empire.

We squat in our rags

and we stretch our ears

towards the crackling speakers--

alive by God's own odd will--

as they herald a new
dawn; an old one, now

I suppose

we listen:

"The Nazis are

retreating...

'merican forces

in France and each...."

We look at one another

with the sad round eyes

of school children

in our hearts we know

both curiousity

and disappointment.

"On the homefront:

men, women..."

the ghost fades,

momentarily, and:

"Restructuring...

there is belief

among the people...

the Axis must...

at all costs

to ensure our safety

evermore under

the Land of God

and by the power"

the dead preacher

bellows

"of a higher and

a truer cause...

our forefathers...

we shall arise...

superpower...

We shall...

Greater..."

we are silent

still waiting

with tepid breath

with fear and

something darker

in our hearts

the finale

"We shall..."

but it never comes

not today

the static drowns

the enlightened bard

the deluded prophet.

At noon tomorrow

we will return

to once more hear

his declaration from

a long-lost time

and wonder if it

ever came true

his truer cause

or if this is all

that there is:

sprouts amid the rubble

dreamers with

wet clay upon

their fingers.

We gasp we sigh

we wonder we hope

but somehow I know

we will never learn

and the world

will forever

be in free fall

a world of dreamers

in the rubble.