Ancient Echoes

The stars, tonight, blinking emphatically,
are semaphores, a muted Morse
speaking from that mirage of graves.
What message do they convey,
these silent screams across time’s space?

Their light, the final sparkle
of dying eyes, speaks of tragedies,
of violent births visible, since the future
has swept us up so quickly,
it has left the past no time to fade.

They are motherly ghosts calling out, still,
for their children now scattered like seeds.
And, like all progenitors, they want their story told,
as the present, with no time to waste,
is illuminated, brims over, and unfolds.