VAULT DWELLERS SERVED

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

The Last Harvest

John Titor said 2008 would be the year that people everywhere realized they were not living in the world they thought they were living in.

The U.S. dollar is a lot like the Phoenician city of Tyre

Men laughed at the notion that city could ever be breached. When it did fall, everything else in Phoenicia fell with it. Ask the 2,000 elders of Tyre how easy it is to live through the decline and collapse phase of a civilization. Tell them about how it's just a stage-change, like for example, going from being living to being dead.

For Vault-Co, it will just be another year. We are grateful for every spare minute we have to prepare, every reprieve, every instant of easy breathing without the sudden terror that comes upon human beings when they concede they have been living a delusion. We continue to hope for more time.

What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only

What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,

Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning.

Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder

DADatta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms

- Excerpt From THE WASTELAND By T.S. Eliot

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

so elegant, so intelligent.' Whatta poem.
Read today that co. is developing solar panels with 50% efficiency. Thats about 500 watts/M2.
We have the tech to make paradise, if only the intelligent were also wise.

www.000webhost.com