Other Side of the World

Twenty-five years
Of messages in wires,
Voices on telephone lines.

I saw his face in shadow,
Shadows crossing it,
On the other side of the world,
In his lightless room.

The time had come.

The time had come to take up arms
Against oceans of indifference,
To join hands across the walls
That separate the world.

Time to send another message out.

Then one last call, another evening,
The last before transmission, one last call
And I heard time passing: time claiming us
One by one before the appointed hour.

His friends were gone, devoured by dust
Sucked into the void of the dead and gone
The grim future, the grinning phantom
Threatening that all this is also dust.

Whatever steps you take are hollows in the dirt
Blown away by later winds till you lie down
In the dry desert, your mission in ruins,
You, left for carrion, silently calling
For help which never comes.

He had a vision…

But I could not remember where it led.

I was as silent as all our graves.

© BH, 2016

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This is about how we do things. Or not, as the case may be. Lots of other clichés spring to mind. Putting your head above the dyke. Even with the most elaborate plans in place, it’s possible to still be entangled in the eternal process of becoming. It’s not just procrastination that is the thief of time.

I’ve worked with several for whom the pursuit of perfection, the grand plan, was a driving force. I’ve worked with a man (they are mostly men) whose red pen could correct the written word till the pages bled. I’ve seen how meticulous preparation stifles vision.

I’m as guilty as the next for such deficiencies. I have procrastinated all my life (look where it’s got me). I’ve prepared and prepared until action becomes an afterthought. Still, there’s always time to change. And, the foregoing isn’t about me. But that, in itself, is another story…