Utopia

by Atlee Lang


A new sun made a new land glow
As I awoke to more than dream.
The flowers drew life from the beam
And let their fragrance gently blow.

Gardens, groves and towering trees
Drink deep from clear-running rivers.
Nothing ever wears or withers;
No pain, no death, and no disease.

Ten thousand years of sacrifice
By men of every place and time
Who paid with sweat and blood to climb
From beast to god, was this day’s price.

They died in heaps to win freedom,
Or gave their lives in harsh study,
To cure all ills with chemistry.
The Eschaton was overcome.

Utopia, we have it now.
Now heaven dawns in my front yard;
We needed only to discard
The myths and lies that made us bow.

All people joined in brotherhood
By perfect love, our only god.
The older ones could never prod
Us up and onward to the Good.

The gods are out of business now:
They promised heaven after death;
Reward after the final breath,
If earthly joys you disallow.

But we grew sick of suffering
And left their laws to make our own;
Resolved to soothe the world’s sad groan
By religiously progressing.

Utopia: no property.
No ownership of land or life.
One billion “sisters” but no wife;
The perfect cure for jealousy.

The finest food, the softest beds,
And endless life to love it all.
Full content, the thing we all call
Heaven. No worries on our heads.

Utopia: the same old sun.
The same old birds still sing each day.
I tire of eternal May.
The games we play have lost their fun.

My favorite sister loves to go
Visit that brother down the stream.
The night’s she’s gone, the stars don’t gleam
And I feel what I dare not show.

Utopia: my brother’s dead.
Blood stains the field in which he lies.
His blood is crying to the skies
But they don’t care. My hands are red.

Guilt troubled me for a short time,
But no one knew; I hid him well.
Guilt fell into the growing Hell
Of void that pardons every crime.

Utopia: they’re all like me;
Desire darkens every face,
Blood flows in every secret place
And soon will flow where all can see.

Utopia: flames burn again.
Green Eden turns to black wasteland,
I clutch a sharp stick in my hand,
War parties roam beyond command,
To kill at whim’s slightest demand
And finally, I understand
That heaven can’t be made by men.


Copyright © 2010 by Atlee Lang

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