The Sky is on Fire

I like to think I remember the good old days.
When my friends and I wondered to faraway lands on adventures crafted in our minds.
How our fathers would sit gathered in small circles and our mothers in even smaller circles communicating in loud whispers.

I like to imagine the good old days.
When the sun hid at night and daytime always came.
The children are dancing to the rhythm of their own laughter.
There are women who whisper into the night and all is well among the people who sit around watching.

I like to think the good old days aren't so far behind.
That my mind still wanders so freely and my hands aren't so carved with stories.
That our fathers are still gathered in small circles and that our mother's whispers still travel though the wind.

I like to remember the good old days.
They differ so greatly from the realities I see.
The children do not dream and the men no longer sit.
The night is still as death, there are no women to whisper.
All is amiss in the land,
and the sky is on fire.