Leaving the garden

How were we able to drink up the sea?
                                                 —Nietzsche

Before the war, we sought out the shadows,
and rested in their coolness; our thoughts 
only rarely wandered beyond our work,
to the wind, stirring the fields at twilight.
What is left? Fires burn on a thousand hills.
We place ourselves like moths, stunned by flame, 
fluttering above the wrecked cathedrals;
clawing at the shells of our own cocoons.