Maeve upright stands encased in cairn and legend.
How many thousands years she’s yearning,
Her spear again against the north’s Red Hand?

All our hands now red, two hundred years but passed
Since oil we brought forth, and burning.
It’s every creature we lay down to sleep,
No heroes to the rescue turning.

Every hound and bull and youth will fall,
Each grain of wheat and barely.
We’ve warmed the winds and burnt the land
And even seas are boiling.

We built a mythic PAST to worship.
No future.