The river of ritual is parched.
Where once currents were deep and swift
is now a bed of dry stone.
Where once mendicants came,
in their place is a commemorative plaque.
Where once priests and shamans chanted,
now the curious come in search of the arcane.
Where once smoke from a volcano was seen
as a sign, now geologists explain.
There is no more honey-thick blood
to anoint the body of the novice.
All has been reduced to commentary.
It is an age of reason and cause.
It is an age of lies and double-talk.
Nothing can touch us. We are safe.
In place of incantation there is silence.
In place of protest, acquiescence.
In place of faith, acceptance.
In place of hope, indifference.
In place of song, noise.
The river no longer flows,
but we are waiting.