WEIRDER THAN FICTION

History will forget about us
Because the future does not know this:
That all that we have written, and all
Our children grew were not their own seeds.
They plotted their own story; they did.

They killed every luck that visited
Strangers were all their favourite friends
The orchard was a garden i knew-
Seven trees stood tall, all without leaves
The gardeners left the fronds because
What our children grew were not their seeds
After years of nothing, stone and dust,
A harvest came, something they’ve hated.
They debated and waited for naught
History was not the cause this time

Leonell