The sylvan plains are empty. No more elves,
   no nymphs or fauns
dance to the river's murmurings,
   celebrating -

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 -
   they're hibernating

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
   and overrated

they needn't bother to suppress the dancers –
   for who could dance
when grace, poise and humanity
   all are outdated?

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