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Hayan Charara
O!
The sun will turn
into charcoal and the sky,
a hole where once
it shined.
Sons and daughters
will become men
and women whose sons
and daughters have
children whose
children do not
know them. Or something
else, or something
worse, or a thing
unthinkable.
What can't be
imagined?
No trees, which
a long time ago touched
each other from
continent to continent?
Or bees, which are
in the Qur'an
and are already
disappearing?
Or the things done
again and done again
and done again,
which is sometimes
called a life?
All the almost-
babies in the bellies
of all the almost-mothers,
they will come
screaming into
the world, and they
will go quietly, so
quietly that almost
every man, woman, child,
and animal will be
none the wiser.
Save us from
our own black holes.
Save us from
Genghis Khan.
Save us from
the Bubonic Plague.
Save us from
the Dead Sea,
from Death Valley,
from the ravages
of the moon,
which will one day
tumble onto
our heads.
Save us
from that which keeps
all the good scientists
wide awake so late.
O, one day there
will be no more
"What's up, baby?"
No more "Good night,
Sweetie Pie."
No more
"Honey,
take out the trash."
No more,
no more.
One day everything
will be gone.
Everything
will be different.
One day, but not
today, and not
tomorrow, and not soon
at least.
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