How fitting it is that an era that dawned
Deep down in dark, deadly, and dangerous mines,
That flourished on crude oil and gold we called black,
That ruined our waters with poisonous brines,
Eroded our soils and darkened our skies,
Should now in these Silicon Times be holding
Festivals aimed to recall, by magical cries,
Ages Gaia would not remember beholding.
O yes, Oyez! Give us propellers that churn
Up the wind, panels that suck up the sun.
May our great footprint of carbon diminish
To the light blurr of a child’s eager passage.
May we piously sort vast mountains of waste
By plastic and steel and by tin and by glass
Avidly sweating in ritual haste
’Til Gaia appears and the end comes to pass.