The echo resonated across the morning sky
decaying so slowly he could not be sure
it was fading at all, and if not, just how long
it might continue until it fell silent.
He had heard it before, knew well the sound
of the ever pleading voice asking nothing
for itself, for its speaker, only seeking what
all should have known was urgently needed.
Yet each time he heard it, it went unanswered
its prayers and entreaties fallen on deaf ears.
He knew the time would come when some
would hear and if enough did so, just perhaps
there was still a faint glimmer of hope,
and he clutched that fine thread tightly,
leSt it slip away into the maelstrom
that continued to grow around them all.
he knew he wouldn’t be there to see
the outcome, knew that even a full life
would necessarily come up short, but
he wanted a legacy, recognized or not
that was of no matter, so it all came down
to the voice of the crying prophet, that
singular voice that could only be his.
—
Louis Faber is a poet and writer living in Florida with his wife (a fellow poet) and their cat (their editor). His work has appeared widely in the U.S., Canada, Europe, and India and in Cantos, The Poet (U.K.), Alchemy Spoon, Dreich (Scotland), Tomorrow and Tomorrow, Defenestration, Atlanta Review, Glimpse, Rattle, Pearl, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among others, and was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
