Vladimir Lenin had questions too

Pondering today, as I have been all week, what happens when we turn away from our Source to seek answers.

A question is posed

What can I write
in a world gone mad?

The thing is to shout,
to be heard
above the roar of them shouting,

shouting anger,
shouting the lies they've come to love
again 
and again

now here, now there,
now left, now right
now asking and answering
now half-hearted listening--
does anyone want to listen?

What is to be done?
Lenin asked the world
and the world answered, fight.
But fight for what?
The clouds didn't answer.
Maybe the earth would.

The earth seemed to say,
Dig.
Dig.
Dig and make new.
So they ploughed the earth and they made it rough,
they planted in it the tears of their fight,
they hoped, in the planting, to uproot the weeds.

But the new plants that grew were stronger than weeds,
stalks thick and bristles clinging,
not soft like the seeds
dropped with heartache in the dirt,
and no one knew what to do then.
What could be done?

Nothing but to finish what they'd started.
The tears had been planted,
the ground overturned,
the questions answered 
with grim finality.

The days marched on
and the frost sank down
and the weeds broke the earth
until one day the world was full of ghosts,

their bones become seeds, 
their memory
the whisper of failure--

all somehow telling the same story
that the world has gone mad

and we can't make it right.