New Artists

Trilling voices issue from the next room, 

music mixed with the sullen humming of a weary fan,

tiredly turning summer air. 

Muffled voices, hitting the table 

with eager little hands. 

The future unfolds itself.

It possesses their hearts 

with creativity and wonder. 

With instructions, they embark—

exploring the world through the turnings 

of young minds. 

Nothing is finished, nothing is done. 

They are not who we are, 

they are not who we would be. 

They are fresh, free—for the moment—

from our old prejudices. 

They haven’t learned our errors

but they will learn their own. 

They will follow paths of discovery 

and suppression. 

They will wobble on stiff legs 

past weary facades and empty car parks. 

They will learn new facts. 

They will cherish old gods (new sciences). 

They will make the art of the world. 

Across the room, little voices.

They are not afraid.

They don’t yet fully comprehend their place, 

but they are already preparing—

for what, they do not know. 

They are the new artists, and they will be here

when there is nothing left of us—

those who taught them how to make.