In all the rubble
are the books,
reflections of imagination,
containers of wisdom,
capsules of folly.
The silent dust drifts across them
as if selecting their choices.
Here, tales of emotions,
and beacons of reason.
Over there, breakthroughs
and heartbreak.
In the rubble of the halls,
discoveries and inventions,
science and faith.
And in the small fires that yet smolder,
the abandoned belief that
life is precious,
good wins out,
and
love
conquers all.
They are all covered now
with the dust and blood of
war upon war upon war,
silent as drowned river stones,
but still abiding,
seeds of spring
along the banks.
