Buried under layers of modern ambitions.
Left to archaeologists to ponder.
Excavating symbols and searching for meanings.
Lost geometry. Lost faith. Lost hopes.
They did things differently back then.
And their ideals were excruciatingly high.
No such faith today. The neon prevents the sky
From giving us the stars and the constellations.
We’re urban children, trapped in the myth of now.
And the old roots go away.
We try to remember, the collective subconscious
Awakens something, a stir of an echo from far away.
The old wisdom is simple. Eternal. Written in stone.
It’s not their fault that we forget.
We manipulate and create shortcuts
To represent our own truths and convenient stories
To tell the pillows in the empty beds.
The children won’t believe.
It’s easy to deceive a floating soul.
And thus everything flows away.
The arrow of time takes it away.
Never looking back.