Wednesday, May 18, 2016

The Flock

Humanity is committing suicide
The skies grow crowded
With pollution and city lights
Last days for the wild
People want the neon
So I moved far from them
I watch the skies at night
Hoping to see the end
Not where we'd begun
Not that I want oblivion
I am not hoping for the sight
Of destruction
But I hate what we've done
I hate who we are
I hate where this path
Has taken us
Endless acquisition and consumption
All under the guise of progress
We have fallen from our dream
Or was it an illusion
Replacing hope with
Devolutionary track
Pleasure replaced industry
Leisure replaced victory
Treasure replaced worth
Justification replaced reality
Now we have a world
Filled with offended children
And apologies
Fucked up beyond the repair
Leaving a disease ridden humanity
There is nothing left to reach for
There is nothing for us to find
We've poisoned all our valleys
Leveled all the mountains
Polluted all the rivers
And smogged every sky
Every child born adds to the toll
Mouths are empty
Stomach rumbling
Water jugs dry
We have been sheep following
Our the leaders
Being herded toward the corral
So that we might be fleeced
Our wool serves our masters
Our meat makes him fat
We are their beasts
Bearing their burdens
Without answer
For their questions
But we bear their loads
Become their cancer
And die for their wars
We are the sheep
Herded for their flock
We are the many
And the gates
Have been unlocked

“For millions of years flowers have
been producing thorns. For millions
of years sheep have been eating them
all the same. And it's not serious,
trying to understand why flowers
go to such trouble to produce thorns
that are good for nothing? It's not
important, the war between the sheep
and the flowers? It's no more serious
and more important than the numbers
that fat red gentleman is adding up?
Suppose I happen to know a unique
flower, one that exists nowhere in the
world except on my planet, one that a
little sheep can wipe out in a single bite
one morning, just like that, without even
realizing what he'd doing - that isn't
important? If someone loves a flower of
which just one example exists among all
the millions and millions of stars, that's
enough to make him happy when he looks
at the stars. He tells himself 'My flower's
up there somewhere...' But if the sheep
eats the flower, then for him it's as if,
suddenly, all the stars went out. And
that isn't important?”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
The Little Prince