Faith in the Future

Children believe in owls and cats
who go to sea.
They also believe in tomorrow,
but tomorrow seems a fairy tale
whenever I read the news.
The headlines scream:
“Whole city dies of thirst
because the climate has been cursed,”
“Artist to be hung at dawn
for blasphemies that he has drawn,”
“New virus doesn’t kill,
but only takes away free will.”

I fall into a restless sleep,
and, as usual, I dream of animals—
of sunfish rising with the dawn
and starfish twinkling in the sky.
Last night I dreamed of fourteen cows—
seven fat and seven thin.
The fat ones drowned in the rising tide;
the thin ones went up in flames
while the whole world played video games.

The future requires faith in what no one has seen:
the future.
But what of faith in the future?
If eternal life comes in a pill,
will we call each other God?
But who then would we worship? And
if every problem has been solved,
will anybody still believe in
fairy tales and owls and cats
who sail the sea in pea-green boats,
or will all faith be in the past?