The Aftermath Begins Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He had waited,
though he was no patient man,
the winter storms
gave way to early Spring,
a silly hare regarded him
watched his descent
into the town
that righteously was
nestled at the foot
of granite boulders
and dead gravel's chaff.
He had to face the clowns
once allies
with their merchant's grins
it seemed they'd stepped,
mid afternoon had come,
outside to watch their son,
who'd chosen war,
against his own
and all of decency
forfeitted all,
a rightful place
though tied to strings
within the fold,
and not a single hand
would ever rise
to greet him,
there was scorn,
a clan rebuffed
dismissed
as if the plague had come
to take possession
of good taste
and manners
holding up the sky
which would have fallen in
of that they were
so sure
and folks now gathered
at the baker's den
to shoot the breeze
if not the messenger
which was against the rules,
oh they detested him,
all empathy had gone
when words could not dissuade
and he stood tall to take
her hand,
and brought it to his lips
to have her fingers slip
inside his mouth,
it was a sign,
a symbol so the baker said
of decadence
brought on by lust
and sheer insanity
that had befallen one
whose council once was heard
throughout the region
and whose voice,
subdued
would calm the boys
and those whose paths
led near the southern tracks
where lepers lived
in poverty,
by God's will,
and shunned
by decent man.
He would not bow
not dip his head,
nor would he halt
his steps
to greet the past,
they dared not spit
though he could see
white flecks of spittle
on their chins,
there were loud calls
to get the carpenter
an able man,
to make a hasty cross,
but he walked on,
a melancholy smile
seemed frozen
on his stoic face.
And all just stared
as he crossed over
and was lost
in morning's dew
at the horizon
near the summit's stars.
There was
no sound
for those
who stood,
still
near the bakery,
and not a single soul
would talk
or mention HER,
due to selective blindness
they'd not seen
that they were two,
perhaps they did,
for they were one.