we are the eschaton

a darker sun casts light of different hue
upon the world we see and apprehend
the sort of thing that's open to our view
is rendered most obtuse and may depend
not on our sense of what is fair or just
but simply on who gets in the first blow
all those who went before are now old dust
and we will be forgotten by first snow
but right this moment we know what is real
our eyes aren't dim and still our ears can hear
we can still comprehend just what's the deal
we can still prize and think our hopes are dear
the kind of light that we'll require for sight
is bright enough although soon will fall night