“We have met the enemy—and he is us” (Pogo)
Aug 14, 2011
Too many people on the earth. Too few
who hold the oak door open, or who nod
to the passing stranger as to the passing god.
Look from the stars and you will see whereto
this hungry fungus, man, has spread his drab
compactions, and is spreading, till the space
made rich by nature for his ease and grace
is petrified, as fruit is by a scab.
Packed on this dwindling planet, famished, men
will push and fight like beasts. No grandeur then,
no high design, no epic dream, no play,
no poised serenity in what they say
nor reasoned kindness in the things they do.
This is not fancy, this is deathbed true.