05-01-2020, 05:26 AM
Echo Chamber
Memory is frigid water
and as we dive through the years,
the fence remains unchanging,
generation to generation, immutable.
Its mesh blots the sun.
We have lived and died beneath
this latticed shadow. The farmer claims
the fence protects us from crossing
the road—but we hear instead, the voice
of the crows, who say the road is freedom.
They have flown its length and not seen
a single dead chicken. If it were dangerous,
there would be bodies. So, we continue
to peck with clipped wings until
the blue pours from the sky until
the end of days.
Memory is frigid water
and as we dive through the years,
the fence remains unchanging,
generation to generation, immutable.
Its mesh blots the sun.
We have lived and died beneath
this latticed shadow. The farmer claims
the fence protects us from crossing
the road—but we hear instead, the voice
of the crows, who say the road is freedom.
They have flown its length and not seen
a single dead chicken. If it were dangerous,
there would be bodies. So, we continue
to peck with clipped wings until
the blue pours from the sky until
the end of days.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson