The dream in which we dwell is at an end.
The longest peace in pieces falls apart
As force and fire triumph over art,
And madness rolls through sky and sea and land.
Unclear and pointless who had acted first:
The box is open, genie on the loose.
We always knew, the day we made the fuse,
The last conclusion of our bloody thirst.
The laws that used to bind us are no more:
The loosening of all established rules.
Some consolation once the wreckage cools,
Grim anarchy that always follows war.
It’s closer now: the new and glowing world,
A spectacle for those who will remain
Through waves of light and sound and shock and pain,
And years of darkness in the sudden cold.
The dream in which we dwell is at an end.
Too late to fight, to plead, to hope, to flee.
And there, on the horizon, do you see
The wave of light enveloping the land?
Grigory Lukin.com 