“What’s past is prologue”

 

In grayscale worlds of discontent

through glorious summer lions slept,

nations shaped new continents

with pledge and promise never kept.

 

What laid dormant was never dead,

each solstice bore a thousand sons.

Arctic freeze withheld its breath

when all around were levelled guns.

 

Whispered words and words emplaced

are bulbs for shoots in years ahead,

history writ and truth defaced

but on the script was not what said.

 

The Masters game to blend each season

toward some future masquerade,

Where flowers bloom they need no reason

of why their hopeful seed was laid.