The Healing of the Rift

The Healing of the Rift

The age of migrations,
long before maps were made,
the tribes not yet nations,
they had not thought of trade.
On one side of the chasm,
they began to build a bridge,
but on the other they raised weapons,
and built a fortress on the ridge.
You can upturn an hour glass,
to watch the sand sift down and shift,
but you may wait forever
for the healing of the rift.

In this new age of migrations,
caused by poverty and war,
tensions between nations
makes every law unsure.
No feud is forgotten,
and always there’s the threat,
the sword will crack the cradle,
the fragile balance be upset.
You can shoulder your burden,
set out to do no more than drift,
and pray for a true treaty
to bring the healing of the rift.

Left with speculations,
you are puzzled by the lies,
with no illuminations,
to shed scales from your eyes.
At the mercy of leaders,
too obstinate to agree,
you must board a broken boat,
and take rough chances on the sea.
You feel stranded with no signs,
and a load you cannot lift.
All that remains is your dream
of the healing of the rift.

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