Always, too early . . . Always, too late . . .


We really are staring into an abyss:

They show us what they are,

That there are no limits they will not transgress.


Through their eyes,

The lives of others mean less, far less than nothing,

You, me . . . our children.


How can I stop it?  I cannot.

Not for those for whom it is already too late.

Not for those to whom the calamity will yet befall.


It has the feel of a nightmare,

Of what is most frightening,

Of what is most unreal.

It is a nightmare.  It is worse than a nightmare.

It is real.


. . . I wanted to make a plea.

I cannot.  Always, it is out of time.  Always, too early . . .

Always, too late . . .