Take a left turn past the coffee-shop
And drive until your tires meet gravel.
Look to your right and see the children
At play. All calloused hands, no smiles.
Their sweat will one day cease to drip
From broken noses, to run in rivulets
Down suntanned arms, to eventually
Fall to the pavement, a metaphor indeed.
In the eight minutes it will take for the
Lack of sunlight to reach our homes,
Two thousand and sixteen infants will
Be born. Two thousand sixteen pairs of
Eyes staring up at a light source that
Has ceased to exist, a twist of fate.
But apocalyptic visions rarely cure
Cancer. And so the boys play on
Amidst the blinding sunshine.