Sunday, January 23, 2005

This Antique World

I saw you this day, back in 1972.
Your face wasn't half so serious and you always wore that same pair of jeans.
The sky was actually clear. Do you remember those days?
And your skin would get goosebumps when I touched it, because you said I was so cold; too cold.
But the streets would twist and turn to encapture out feet and propel us further. We would dance on rooftops and stargaze in each other's eyes.
We would tell each other that we were free. That we would never be soldiers, except of our own fate. We would sing sticky sweet lullabies.
33 years have passed.
Your hair has grown thin and you shake your head when I try to make you smile.
The sky is not sky anymore, and simply smog.
You don't let me touch you because you're afraid I'll still be cold; too cold.
We never go out on the streets anymore. They are darkened and filled with cracks to break us. There are no more rooftops to dance on, and our feet are too weary. Our eyes have lost their stardust.
We don't talk of freedom anymore. Not with the bombs and the cradles of war. Our voices are hoarse from choking down smoke.
The only soldiers we see anymore are the ones that are shown to us on TV. The ones overseas that don't make us cry because we, bringing up the new generation, are too desensitized. The blood no longer makes us want to hold on to that little bit of hope, now tattered and buried with the thousands - millions - of bodies of the dead.
Now I look up into the night sky and I can't seem to find any stars.
Even they have lost their luster.

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