Lost Nation

This is where whole nations lost their prayers
where seeds blow…
where the fields burned

This sky does not cry
the way the one at home does
it has seen to much
too many centuries of nothing
where seeds should be thrown to gods,
and not coins.

The sky here has no rhythm, it just is.
It is big, expansive
large enough to encompass every word
in every language that dare describe it.
They had no word for “lie”, you know
as they do now, under that sky
that still begs for the long gone dance.
But they don’t dance.
Their fields have burned,
and their seeds just blow.