Bent branches draping stringent moss
Over the barren nest of the Albatross,
Housing a lonely shell
That, when Time tells,
Should struggle to get a point across.
In a plastic land,
The shift of sand
Never falls through the slender neck,
While the opposite age,
The previous page,
They read and then soon forget.
Prescibed on scrolls and tablets,
There lies ancient cures to modern woes,
Denied by "revolutionaries"
As archaic meanings set in stone.
With the intent of hearing echoes
That ring in octaves slightly higher,
They fail in being audible
Over the skillful picking of the lyre.
