|Lisbon Bridge, commissioned by El Mundo/Expresso Magazine, Portugal|
The same process grinding along just about everywhere. The great forests and oceans are dying. And it is we who are killing them. Every day brings us closer to a tipping point. Our civilization, in and of itself is a rolling, Extinction Level Event.
And were the last to choose the settled ground,
Its boredom of the desk or of the spade, because
So many years companioned by a hound,
Our voices carry; and though slumber-bound,
Some few half wake and half renew their choice,
Give tongue, proclaim their hidden name -- 'Hound Voice.'
The women that I picked spoke sweet and low
And yet gave tongue. 'Hound Voices' were they all.
We picked each other from afar and knew
What hour of terror comes to test the soul,
And in that terror's name obeyed the call,
And understood, what none have understood,
Those images that waken in the blood.
Some day we shall get up before the dawn
And find our ancient hounds before the door,
And wide awake know that the hunt is on;
Stumbling upon the blood-dark track once more,
Then stumbling to the kill beside the shore;
The cleaning out and bandaging of wounds,
And chants of victory amid the encircling hounds.