“It was written: now they are coming…”
Her voice was calm, and her friend understood she was merely stating a fact. She too had thought of the omen in the last nights, as they both laid, enlaced, on the soft land, under the moon.
They looked at each other, in silence. Evolution is about that, she thought: we live, we prosper, we ruin the land, and then we have to accept: someone cleverer than us will take our place. In a cloud, without a word. Gaia is always right, in the end.
We will live another sunset, another night, another dawn. The world is old, but we are still young, and we are learning, to deserve this world, to protect our children, to fight greed and its evils. The beauty around us will teach us respect, for Earth and her Creator.
At long last, then, we may be admitted, among the other creatures who share Earth with us, forever and ever.
The woods are asleep, all is immobile, and silent, under the searing heat. Well, not all. For the unforgiving eye is there, ensuring nothing escapes. For this is our fate: we have plundered and polluted our world, and, now, we will pay the price.
We waited for the storm, the lightning, the thunder,
But it did not come, instead, the sky behind the hills
In one brief instant, was alight, as if the true God
Wanted to warn us: the glorious sunset reminded us
That we are nothing without Mother Earth.
Dedicated to the Native American tribes, victims of the greatest genocide in history, who knew agriculture, and the art of living, when Europe was starving, crawling in medieval darkness.
He stands on the red rocks, alone with ghosts, his sight on the painted horizon.
Slowly they appear in his vision: the millions, slaughtered by disease, hunger, the swords and bullets of the invaders.
He remembers: a people in tune with nature, who understood the path of Mother Earth, as no-one since has understood Her.
And, now, he, the white scientist, knows the end is near: his own tribe will have to leave the Fourth World, and find solace in hell.
Then the braves will rise from their forgotten graves, as trees from the desert.
Written originally for the #FiveSentenceFiction prompt “Abandon”
Photo: 12th century Wupatki ruins, Wupatki National Monument
