Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
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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.