Oppenheimer

Oppenheimer’s Shadow

In the desert’s blinking heat
the gun‑metal sun swallowed White Mesa,
while the night‑shrouded H‑rooke men whispered
“There are no truths that lie behind a grill of ro‑blight.”

He, who lectured on Greek and Ash,
stood in the oak‑taped wind‑chamber of Los Alamos;
the great rumour slipped among his bones—
the silent spectre of a bomb that would no longer be written in ink.

His voice, once bright, choked on a single line:
“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
In his heart a trembling plague, a onslaught of conscience—
the war’s melody turned into a requiem played in salt.

From the distant Atlantic ice, a choir of cities rose to cry:
“Whishting out the crown of war!”
Amid the soft tremble of shutters he heard,
“Every immortal dream ends with a black morning.”

And at his bedside the king of naughties said,
Great pyre of love for a future unborn!
His tale remains the flicker of a man’s world:
An ancient jigsaw missing pieces, a Puzzle so very grey.

The mutter of the night dissolves within dust;
the corners of the mind that turned up steam—
for greatness is not a garden of lilies, but a field of bees.
Remember the man that cleaved the mantle of electric fate,
and plotted every star in the endless poetry of tomorrow.