Sunday, March 17, 2024

The Devil’s Still

You think of your world
As incredibly loud,
And it often is,

Most often in ways
Where older worlds were
Much quieter—less

Machinery, no
Jets overhead, no
Percussion thumping

In loops out of cars.
But the countryside
Itself is weirdly

Quiet, when no trucks
Or jets are passing,
So much quieter

Than it used to be,
Fewer birds, fewer
Bees, almost no beasts.

Even the peasants
Are gone. No one works
At foraging. No one

Lives in a village
Here or hikes to cut
Wood to survive.

This world’s emptier,
However noisy
In most of its parts,

However many
Times as many heads
There are as there were,

Altogether. You
Don’t want to say so,
To say this barren,

Artificial wild
Is to your liking,
But you know it is.

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