Babel's Staircase

The prophets heard history speak;
a howling that lasted too long.
They had withstood the test of time
with their hearts of adamantine;
their ventricles of golden omens,
their atriums of bittersweet visions.

And so they drank from chalices,
reviled retrospection,
cherished the moments out there and yonder,
out beyond the spectral streets.

"How did we do it?" asked a master.
"How can we stand here so meek?"
"Did we inherit the earth?"

They placed the chalices belly down;
drips of new beginnings fell smoothly,
fell vigorously on Babel's feet.

"We inherited nothing," responded another master.
"What was once before is now again."
"The earth has completed one cycle."
"Many will follow."

Then, out of boredom, they looked at their hair.
So white and unkempt.
A mirror would have surely put them to shame.

"What time is it now?" asked another master.
"What shall we do?"
"This boredom is poison, a bane."

So they climbed the endless steps,
destination unknown,
looking for scissors and holy water,
and the true face of the thaumaturgic game,
for the serum that would stop history's ceaseless
belly rumbling.