Renewal.

The waters are flowing, the trees are sprouting from beds of black soil.
Fertility showing, seeds have impregnated the impenetrable ground.
The thunder from the skies is lessened; we are able to afford our toil.
Watching the sky- birdless- brings a surreal sense of euphoria to the unsound.

And when my ears hear the music of a harp in the distance, I trudge through frozen plains, hungry mud, and finally I awake.
It was only a dream, after all.
If there's any justice in this universe, the music will cease.
The beauty of its horrid sound has me enthralled.
I stalk upon the broken glass surface of what was once the desert.
My reflection is troubling.
The bags under my eyes are too dark.
The skin is too pale and too wrinkled.
I find the source of the discord,
a broken bicycle wheel with spokes like strings
being strummed by the fingers of a newly sprouted tree.
The wind is just right for the wheel to spin,
not too harsh, or too light, perfect for the sound of music.
And, against all odds, the sound produced becomes beautiful;
even though the strings are old and rusted, and thick with dirt- dull metal.
A voice of sorts is created in the failing light,
and I look back upon the plain of glass, to what used to be the west;
peering upon the ruined skyline of the city, my heart beating in my chest.
I still wonder how long ago those buildings had risen, powerful and vivid.
I still wonder how such beauty can still survive in a place so poisonous and pitiful.
So filthy.
So deprived.
The wind finally stops,
and the music subsides...
and still it provides,
and still it entices,
it gives me a hope
and I feel I can survive this.