Leaders of Their Ages

Ash billows like smoke, stark against the fire-lit sky
Glowing sun exists no more
Hidden behind clouds of dust and despair and decay
Makeshift camps set along the shore
Sounds of desperation shake the ground

She strides from group to group
Hair bright scarlet as the sky
A sword at her hip and a gun over her shoulder
Ignoring those who whisper why
There is no answer to be found here

Colourless waves unfurling their cold fingers
Rocky beach littered with makeshift tombstones
No trees, no plants, no life thrives
Few survivors: fierce but skin and bones
Hope burns alongside the earth

He holds wires in one hand and frowns
A pocketbook tucked into suit pocket
What use is an inventor if he cannot help people?
Praying for the miracle of a working rocket
Or catching a radio wave to safety

Children play in the ruins of a rust-gilded car
He has stripped it bare with desperation
Teenagers stare out into the gloom
She mourns the generation without a nation
Tears clean the soot from their cheeks

Torn books holding the key to knowledge
“The past cannot be cured” says she
Stories told around the flames
“The future is mine” says he
Hope flickers in the face of her courage and his imagination

Their people will follow them to the end