No poetry

Earth withdraws her riches, sinks back into the shadows. For tens of thousands of years gentle sun and slanting rain and ferocious winds were moments in the silent life of the mountain. And now we've managed to tear it all up, gorged ourselves until our senses have given way to narcissistic fantasies and then finally exhaustion, nullity.

There's no poetry left in our words, only the utilitarian calculus of planners and revolutionaries. They tell us we have twenty years to act, to slow it down, reverse it. Why not just let things be? There is no time for poetry, no time at all. We head down, head held up high, dragging the rest of creation with us.      

Here there's no stage; here there is no royalty.