Babies Will Be Born With Gray Hair

The title is from a line in Hesiod's epic poem: "Works and Days"... it's about successive world Ages.

Ages swaddle this earth, comb it with energy...

mark its sign upon the sky's forehead.

A collective destiny exiled till seen through,

all infamy already richly stained...light will

show its place.

You will arrive tomorrow with less of

yesterday and more of now--you will prefigure

outcome with an exhausted logic.

As per Hesiod we are in the Iron Age--where

evil shows its face to the four directions.

We petition evil to gain ground by necessity--

it has blended in as to become a way of life.

In turn, the rusts runs, countenance streaked

with hard wears..."babies will be born with

gray hair."

Shadows will throb and adjoin as to build a

night of day.

The heavy laden will curse their bodies...

wait to be dropped in the ground's mouth.

Flowers will beg their roots reverse growth...

see them to a latter sun...a brighter Age.

Houses are desolate though they stand side

by side...their occupants family by blood which

as soon turns to water.

Doors stay their final statement...closed--one

after another, prisonhouses all.

Ye material sophistication sat atop soul to

crush it.

Black the color, doles out its mourning--with

no possibility of color clash.

An exotic horde ants the earth without the

ability to lug things many times their weight--

yet persist...this Iron Age.

Konstantinos Mark

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