Thus we shaped our ideal god.
We sang in time to the digital hum
And harmonized with its synthetic voice
For we knew no other possibility.
We did not need that harmony
But chose to accept it; now,
We live with the consequences.
The greater machine -
Society, never more than a machine -
Is drawn now by its lesser,
A cart pulled by a horse
That the owner can not stop.
For me, I feel the human's cost
And eager pain, this daily ache
Found amid the refuse heap
Where we, the elders, dwell
While far above, the willful blind
March along the pallid ground.
We are adrift, and yet
There is direction in what we do.