There was a time when we loved the sun, counted
those unquenchable flames as one vast illumination
lying deep in the impenetrable night;
brooked no corruption of its beauty
as it gave life to the little blue dot we call home.

But things, as they do, change;
we no longer decay serenely
and in the choking of the air,
the dulling of stars,
treachery shows its withered hand;
and summer is no more the ripening grain,
the scent of apples kissed by sun warmed rain.

So, where do we go from here?
From the unholy precision of progress,
the slick complexity of motor cars;
of foible, fault and fields unsung,
of savage deed and desecrations done,
that chart the glacial shift and slide
that none can stop, yet none wish to abide.

Well;

perhaps we should be brave and call a thief a thief,
accept our reign as mercifully brief.
For madness is our master now and where seeds fly
and where they land, have none of
grace or guidance from my hand;
nor can I speak and hear my voice ring out,
as the winds of change forever blow about.