A Simple Matter by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

The Best Is Yet to Come

Frank Sinatra

Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum

You came along and everything started in to hum

Still, it's a real good bet

The best is yet to come

The best is yet to come, and babe, won't that be fine?

You think you've seen the sun

But you ain't seen it shine

A wait 'til the warm up's underway

Wait 'til our lips have met

Wait 'til you see that sunshine day

You ain't seen nothing yet

The best is yet to come, and babe, won't it be fine?

The best is yet to come

Come the day you're mine

Come the day you're mine

I'm gonna teach you to fly

We've only tasted the wine

We're gonna drain the cup dry

Wait 'til your charms are right for these arms to surround

You think you've flown before

But baby, you ain't left the ground

A wait 'til you're locked in my embrace

Wait 'til I draw you near

A wait 'til you see that sunshine place

Ain't nothin' like it here

The best is yet to come, and babe, won't it be fine?

The best is yet to come, come the day you're mine

Come the day you're mine

And you're gonna be mine

Written by Cy Coleman and Carolyn Leigh.

The rest of the world has gone silent, but the Swartzentruber Amish do not hear silence. They hear the same things they have always heard; the creak of harness leather, the scrape of a hoe, the laughter of children running between the wash lines.

They do not know that the internet hums on without human hands. They do not know that the AI systems; servers in cooled rooms, solar farms still feeding them, continue their routines, exchanging packets of data like monks copying manuscripts in an empty monastery.

The Amish have never asked the world for anything. And now the world, in its absence, asks nothing of them.

The Swartzentruber Amish are the most traditional of all the Old Orders. No electricity. No phones. No engines. No connection to the world that has vanished.

So their days unfold as they always have. Morning - Men walk to the barns with lanterns. Women knead dough in wooden bowls, the rhythm older than memory. Children carry buckets of warm milk to the springhouse.