The New Masters

They appear to be too heavy to move often. They must settle deeply into a place they arrive, calling it home almost immediately, as their massive feet sink into the layers of mud and sludge that seek them out. Then begins the balancing act they must perform three times a day, to prevent crashing whole-bodied into the mud-sludge ground. Even as they balance themselves, they sink a further two or three inches: only now can they look at their home. They bend forward cautiously, arms outstretched, palms downward, careful not sink further into the mud-sludge. And they sway slowly, seeking that perfect balance they believe exists for them on Earth. It's all done by ancient instincts. Their voices emit a bass drone. So these are The Barbarians, they have inherited the Earth. It's our fault they can settle firmly here: we lost our balance, abandoned the required ceremonies, forgot even the rhythms we had been taught. Most of us are gripped by the deepest sleep, where dreams alternately promise and accuse. They are the new Masters. Lately they have begun to howl day and night, rarely can we hear the original drone. And they crush delicate things, flowers and shrubs, humming birds, top soil, ruins of our forgotten temples, with their slender spires of colored glass. They shove mud-sludge into lakes and rivers. (A Last Stanza, Added Years Later) Could we have been so wrong They are on the move now, stomping the now hard ground with their freed feet. The syncopation is unmistakable. The Master are heading north. Those of us awake are drifting back to once familiar places. Does it matter? Often I question myself: Who are you now?