. . . a mighty voice was heard across the waters, crying :  
“The great Pan is dead.” 

Our dances through the groves–
piping, yearning, song–
what did we do wrong?

Our world is gone–
wasted by tiny men
with tiny minds.

History, memory,
poems like green leaves,
hacked by little hatchets,
neglected, burned, crumbled, lost–
O lost!

Music of Earth and ages
drowned out by tinny shrieks
of the rigid and the ignorant,
the pious, stupid–alas!–
the politic, afraid.

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