Noise of a distant fall and no water
but drops in the impossible
suspense. Incongruent the sound,
that rends our tent, of jets
over the wilderness. Shrouding,
shaming the sacred places
where once we felt small.
Angry future mechanistic powers
howling the ancient valleys to sunder
the old elements of air and water,
to plunder the limits of humiliated
primitives, of the comfort
they once found in nothing.
Robbed now of rhythm, of rhyme,
of the gentle massage of time …
so now, where once the passive
moon, soothing, slept us,
at the roar and sly rebuke
of the hoary demon, now,
only rem, rem, rem, rem.