I am a man deprived of his power,
Of dirt and duty,
That my corrupted spine cannot achieve.
And through plastic panes, does my country call
– Of the fire, resting,
The hunt, feasting,
And of trees, listening –
To my yielding soul.
That in winter’s smite,
I forward my life for trade,
And bear artificial fatigue,
By the clicks of a modern man.
To sit, to rot,
In a body of data;
Once passion, blood, and pride.
Killed by desks, and screens,
And phones and keys,
And men forgotten of nature.
