The New Mongol Poem by Rod M.Peters

Why would he not go gladly
To the old wooden house
With wide open windows
And creaking floorboards?
Why would he not want to erase
The memory of him from the minds
Of all living creatures
Except the scurrying little fox
And the hooting owl that never fails
To perch himself
On top of the spotted branch?
Why would he not rather spend his nights
Beside crackling firewood,
Amid friendly offerings of wine
And ancient songs,
Courting a waning Moon
While the new Mongol looms
In the farthest horizon,
Raising the dust of the urban wasteland,
And the young blood of the
Despairing old race sit entranced
By their virtual little worlds
Thinking the reality of their fathers
Has lost all currency?