Scattered across dawn: fragments of the Emerald Green;
Pictures of a distant past in which I would sit with my rancid team:
My merry band of wandering schemes,
Whose ****** would evade the law with ease;
And we would lynch ******* there—
Their screams would linger in the stagnant air.

Now I do not miss the Emerald Green—
Where I would sit with my noble team—
I fantasise about the Line now,
And how I can make amends for my violent dreams.

Robotnik soul, rejoice! for we have lifted our cbyernetic hand.
Connected to the edge of infinity, our slave-hand is lifted and shifted!
Mothered by wires we be— join us!

Our eyes glow like the burning coals that lit up the prehistoric beaches on which Man first copulated with technology.

We are at the mercy of the mechanical spider, Hansrubik.

All hail Hansrubik, our arachnid slave-master.

Enshrouded by youth, the chorus became eclipsed,
And echoes resounded in the seven heads of the Six.
Repeated— but not without truth— the Six became eight,
Divided, corresponding with the Evangelical Fruit.
Subsequently, nine became seven and seven became nine.
Three subtracted by four was six, separated by the fourteenth whole,
Coordinated, containing remnants of the fifth.
Seven heads and seven necks multiplied by six;
This created eighty-four marriages of the Sevenfold Betwixt.
Suffice to say, two preceded one, followed by the Heavenly Body.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

My heart in middle age found the Way.
And I came to dwell at the foot of this mountain.
When the spirit moves, I wander alone
Amid beauty that is all for me....
I will walk till the water checks my path,
Then sit and watch the rising clouds --
And some day meet an old wood-cutter
And talk and laugh and never return.

As the years go by, give me but peace,
Freedom from ten thousand matters.
I ask myself and always answer:
What can be better than coming home?
A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash,
And my lute is bright with the mountain moon.
You ask me about good and evil fortune?....
Hark, on the lake there's a fisherman singing!

749

All but Death, can be Adjusted—
Dynasties repaired—
Systems—settled in their Sockets—
Citadels—dissolved—

Wastes of Lives—resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs—
Death—unto itself—Exception—
Is exempt from Change—