THE JOURNEY HOME
In the world where I was born
the sun warmed the ground
and the grass sprung forth, as green as an emerald.
The seas shone blue from the sky's reflection
and the rain which fell from the skies
tasted like honey upon our lips.
And then the wars began…
and those we sought to destroy…lived
and that which we fought to protect…died.
And the grass burnt and turned black
and each time our feet touched it
it bestowed upon us, tenfold
the agony which we had inflicted upon it.
The seas became grey and its once, bountiful life, perished
and when the rain fell
it digested our skin with its acid breath.
And so we took to the skies
slowly traversing vast amounts of space.
Our bodies, now mutated fetuses,
encapsulated within the wombs of the machines…
that, day by day and year by year
hurdled us towards Sanctuary.
And when times were quiet, we sat and
talked,
and we remembered…
and, as always, silence would come
and the sorrow would spread
and the tears would well up within our eyes
and drop from our eyelids onto our hands.
But they would not cleanse,
for our hands, in our own eyes, would always remain scarlet,
in remembrance of our own futility.
And so onward we go,
travelling through this abyss of time.
Our hands outstretched, our fingers reaching,
hoping…always hoping
that minds, wiser than ours, will find us
and forgive our pasts and recognise the potential
of what we could become.
And they too, will stretch out their arms to us
and take our hands
and guide us home…
© Lynn McCorry 1994
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