Late Summer Fields

Fall was still to come,
yet everything was already falling.

A young nation of ideologues,
A thousand stories
giving rise to
a thousand more.

Smoke signals from
a troubled land,
an island of immigrants
seeking shelter
amidst the powdered glass
and disfigured steel.

Divorced from the motherland
we were orphaned
yet again.

We gathered in late summer fields
and wept,
“Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.
Hush! Hush! Hush!
We've all tumbled down.”