Ants march to their empire With the crumbs of giants Along a riverine path Sinuous like the forest nymphs. The leaves gossip with winds From Earth’s four corners, Tales of how the mighty have Fallen to the tides of change. Fate sisters are dead, no longer Can they tickle the fickle threads Which orderly suspend the universe. Streams of chance revitalize The mundane gray horizons That blanket industrial visions, Where nails and hammers make Love to each other, the mechanical Euphoria erecting shanty towers Bending to the gravity of need. Pallid faces are mass produced In the land of milk and honey. They said this is where dreams Were born from black ashes, Yet only meek weeds were able To sprout in such parched air. An awakening is imminent, Whispered the winds to the leaves. The youth will fertilize the scorched Earth with soft, tolerant hands. Callouses will peel off with the Soothing touch of promise, as The old dead skin rides the dust.