-- *Mar*Here is a poem spoken *by Nature itself*—slow, grieving, and dignified, not angry, as if the Earth is still hoping you will listen. ------------------------------ *Elegy of a Mechanized Earth*
I once spoke in roots and you answered with feet bare in mud. Now I speak in coughs and you answer with engines. My rivers were mirrors where clouds practiced becoming rain. You taught them to remember oil, to forget the names of fish. The mountains stood still so you could learn patience. You taught them haste— drilled their bones for profit. I breathed you into being through forests and plankton, through the long green prayer of leaves turning light into food. Now every breath you take costs me a wound. Your machines do not sleep. They grind through night, mistaking silence for emptiness, mistaking my body for raw material. I am not angry. I am tired. My soils no longer dream of seeds. My winds carry instructions instead of stories. Even the stars look down through a veil I did not weave. I tried to warn you softly— with melting ice, with animals walking into your cities as if asking for directions home. You called it data. You called it progress. Still, I cradle you. Still, I turn toward the sun. Still, beneath asphalt and wire, my old songs wait— faint, but alive. If you place your ear against what remains of my skin, you will hear it: Not a command. Not a threat. A plea to remember that you were once my listening organ. ------------------------------ If you’d like, I can: - Make it *shorter and more chant-like* - Write it in the voice of a *river, forest, or soil* - Shape it as a *ritual poem* - Or adapt it to directly reflect *Theodynamics* Just tell me 🌿 -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. To view this discussion visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CACDCHCKhjvo5CkVi3oPovCbxpbepUC6y27s51pTiXdi2SyHrNg%40mail.gmail.com.
