The river’s drying. No-one cares. The sky’s on fire, but
no-one dares deny that life is good; so they won’t change. The end is coming.
Build a boat. A boat won’t sail on river-beds. The land is dead. They’ll seed a
wider field instead.
Old Noah led his flock inside, his wife, his kids and
grandkids, sheep and goats, a cow or two, some birds who’d taken roost inside
the roof.
The sky’s all smoke. The field’s all broken. No-one dares
deny that life is good.
The swollen river rose like heaven’s fist in mighty waves.
Only old Noah’s saved.
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