by David Alan Jones
Quiet was the mind of man. The millennia had broken on that
race like magma: running hot and fluid in the world when it was young;
slowing, weighing on it like stone as it aged.
Man had left the earth to contemplate the stars, only to
return empty-hearted. He was alone.
He delved the oceans, plundered the near satellites and milked
The race waxed -- rage and noise and plight -- and the race
waned -- care and woe and fright. Until, like a ball rolling on an arc,
man’s mind came to peace, resting in a center so deep it
could not be roused.
Out of the craton of the earth rose intellect, peerless and
sharp. And mankind’s numbers, so few, so reticent, did not
recognize its strength.
Earth’s crust drank the blood and dreams and flesh
of its former masters, and then pushed up sweet fruits for its new
© 2006 David Alan Jones
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