In the future everyone will be a monarch, for 15 minutes.
(Andy Warhol meets the multitasking oligarchy )

At the Edge of the Shrinking Forest,

we stand.

From the gateway

to the garden, absent 

the banner of self-righteousness.

Firmly,

we face desolation.

Conscientious objectors

within the unconscionable truth.

As if to measure the nuance

of what the sacrificial lamb

had whispered to the whipping boy.

To the Dictum of the Atacama:

At length,

what will they say of us?

Those of us

here

to witness the last days

of an Earth filled with diversity

and life.

Down the long corridors

of time —after abundant variety

has dwindled to all but a few.

What will be done,

or said?

Will they thank us

for having postponed

the inevitable

just one generation longer —

or curse us for our failures?

(Salvatore could see

what the sacrificial lamb

had whispered

to the whipping boy,

and painted it.)

At the Doorstep of an Epitaph:

Go down

garden paths that lead to the wells

where elements combine

and creation yet dwells.

To dew-covered mossy rocks

and roots

over which we climb

in our precious

pursuits.

The scent of fresh fruits

and herbs as you roam.

Where Enkido —

as the Greenman —

made his forest home.

Hear echoes on the east wind,

the Crone in your ears.

In her sound and her silence,

find the wisdom of years.

Watch the Stag scale the summit

in power and pride —

let his energy fill you,

to quicken your stride.

At the touch of a raindrop,

awaken sensation, 

the Maiden of waters

smiles her invitation.

In essence and knowledge

our Mother is sure.

Her stability guides you,

her spirit is pure.