We convened beneath the iron bridge that ran over Woolworth Street. Despite the incessant hammering of trains on track, we listened.
“It’s our street! Our patch! Our land!”
John belted them out like Moses just lower.
“Is it OUR Earth, too?” Jenna countered.
A Queen was born. A jerk defeated.
“Come stand beneath the candelabra,” she commanded.
My grandmother, old battle-axe, had never liked me. The feeling was mutual. As the oldest male heir I had inherited our family’s wealth. She had hated me for it, but I still attempted to be respectful. Blind as a bat and equally nocturnal, she eyed me as I stood in the full glare of a hundred crystal housed candles. As if illuminated by God’s own searchlight, I returned her glare.
“Ha!” she expounded with a flourish releasing some sort of rope.
“Damn!” shouted I, as the candelabra slit open my skull.
In salamander eyes
I see all that is wrong in the world:
Greed, the lust for more,
Whatever that more may be,
Salamanders do not care,
Anything to further their ambitions to consume more air.
They shall never be satisfied, of course,
It is not in their natures to be content,
To accept their place between worlds,
Until it is too late
And they lie by the waterside shrivelled, dead.
If only they’d realised the perfection of their environments:
Blue of water;
Green of grass;
Oxygen, unseen but always there;
If only they’d seen the beauty they basked in.
But, they didn’t; haven’t; don’t, and never will.
(Image courtesy fr.m.wikipedia.org)