The sylvan plains are empty. No more elves,
no nymphs or fauns
dance to the river's murmurings,
Big Brother's new disciples all agree
those guileless feasts
had to be ended, anyhow,
at their dictating.
The little people fled to cave and tree.
They'll bide their time
and calmly weather any storm -
while I, without them, sometimes ask myself
just who's to blame,
or what; if they'll return; how long
I must keep waiting...
but then again, I fear I know the answers.
As human ears
find truth and substance in what's base
they needn't bother to suppress the dancers –
for who could dance
when grace, poise and humanity
all are outdated?