|
|
Matthias Neeracher | CogwheelsI know my place in this machine
though I don't know where it is going.
Such questions are not mine to ask;
I'm far below the gears and levers
that set the course and drive me on,
cog driving cog for me to follow.
While I hear, distantly but louder every day
the roar of a larger machine starting,
a mechanical Moloch, designed to shock and awe
The tank is full, the course is set,
engine noise drowns out
all conversation with the driver.
And next to me, the other wheels
perform their task: some spinning quickly,
their movements hidden in a blur;
some slow, in calm determination
to bear their load and move along,
but none of them appearing doubtful.
The large machine starts rolling,
belching smoke as it rumbles through the desert,
a thousand cameras following its every move.
It swallows up everything in its path;
gears slick with blood effortlessly
grind skin and bones into fine dust.
There's thousands more made just like me,
and each could take my place the moment
I drop a cog or stop my work.
So I roll on, my cracks well hidden.
This is no time to ask for grease:
I am one wheel that won't be squeaking.
|
|
|
