Gloom

  
 

It's raining, it's pouring
The scenes are appalling,
But there's still a chance
We can advance
 And improve things in the morning.

The skies seem to reflect our sentiments. The dismal heavens weigh heavily upon us. But let's not be too gloomy and repetitive. Let's try to be more positive despite everything.
Yet when the mind drifts off looking for an amusing subject, invariably it once more plummets down like the rain itself through the grey, wet atmosphere, to land on the vague, drenched image of the French President. The Rain-man who excels in mediocrity.

No, this is not what one wants to read. One aspires to be transported to happy new horizons, to Mediterranean climes, to freedom, to pristine, cyan-blue lagoons, islands in the sun. Then one thinks of Lampedusa.

It's raining, it's pouring,
 Now it's time for mourning.
They could have tried
 To save those who died.
A new day is dawning.

Where is humanity going, or rather where has it gone?
Is this the Europe we want? More prompt and generous to prepare enough polished coffins, than be bothered about first trying to save those for whom they have been prepared?

In a world where communication excels, we are still fearfully prone to adopt the stance of the three monkeys, to the detriment of far too many human lives. Or inversely, far too often, communication is abused. We are daily inundated with messages informing us that amongst millions of others, we are the chosen few to have the chance of realising a dream, providing we subscribe and make regular contributions for the benefit of cynical frauds.

We have seen how much truth there is in the saying that war brings out the best and the worst in human nature. But in today's world our sophisticated means of communication causes exactly the same effect. And more often than not, the balance appears to weigh too heavily on the worst side. So again we reach the sad conclusion that too frequently human nature is unworthy of its own achievements.

We are capable of reaching the stars, but we shall still stake our claim by planting our flag there.

(...) 

Like eager, blind children

We race for the stars

Taking with us our love,

Our hate and our fears.

But the sun will always rise

And dry the dew.

And the wind will sigh

And sigh anew.

1973

Each day is a new gift. There is nothing more rare than a new day. A brand new page on which we can make our mark, create, benefit from all the joys of life, determine an even better tomorrow. Survive, or die.

J'en suis désolé, c'est le temps. Ca va passer. Il y a toujours demain..

__

Text, image, parodies (from the English nursery rhyme) and final verse of a poem © Mirino. October, 2013