Post by Jan on May 28, 2005 16:04:02 GMT -5
You only see what you expect to see. And that’s what they depend on. They watch you; studying your movements, your mood swings, your pleasure and your pain. For many generations they have nurtured you like a tender plant or like their firstborn babe. But now their patience is wearing thin.
They are the Ancient Peoples. Guardians of the Planet, Custodians of the Land. They live in caves, in rivers, under bridges, in waterfalls, quarries and in ancient woodland glades. Can you FEEL their presence? They can feel yours.
In times past, some called them fairies, some called them elves, or gnomes. Others – the more sensible of you - called them The Gentry, or simply referred to them as THEY. Whatever they were called, one thing was as certain as the sunrise. They were respected.
Offerings of ale, golden butter, warm milk straight from the cow, and shortbread made with care and fit for a king, were left for them on star-filled nights. And whenever they were spoken of, it was in hushed tones, like the whispered prayer of a child.
Times have changed, and they are not amused. First you killed the Dragons, the Spangled Sea Serpents and the beautiful Mermaids. Then you slaughtered the last of the Unicorns and danced your victory dance in her scarlet blood. Even her death scream didn’t stop you.
They see you now, littering the sacred woodlands with fly-tipped furniture and plastic bin bags full of household waste. They see their forests and their meadows ripped up to make way for yet another motorway. They smell the noxious fumes from your cars and your aircraft, the poisons you spray on your crops, the smoke from your factories.
They can see the planet dying – and they want you to stop.
Part of the problem, they told me, is that you have assumed ownership. You believe you have inherited the Earth, and that the leys and the water meadows, the pastures and the mountains, are yours to do with as you please. You are very wrong. At best you are gardeners, placed here to nurture and to cherish the planet. But they see you mostly as thieves, seeking to bring about chaos.
It is time, they told me, for those of you who care, to speak to the Nations of Man. To reveal the damage you are doing to this, your only home. But they warned me that you would not listen. Too much, you enjoy the freedom that your cars and your aircraft offer you, your warm baths, your cheap clothing made from the sweat of slavery. You believe that your supermarkets offer you freedom of choice, when in fact, they are dictating to you what to eat and when.
Your children run wild, beating up the vulnerable and stealing from their elders to support their habits. There are homeless beggars on the streets of every city – whilst empty homes crumble and fall in the name of progress. And you call this civilisation.
They tell me that this will end. They will not allow you to poison the planet any longer. The time of gentle nurturing is gone. This is your final warning. From now on, it’s war!
They are the Ancient Peoples. Guardians of the Planet, Custodians of the Land. They live in caves, in rivers, under bridges, in waterfalls, quarries and in ancient woodland glades. Can you FEEL their presence? They can feel yours.
In times past, some called them fairies, some called them elves, or gnomes. Others – the more sensible of you - called them The Gentry, or simply referred to them as THEY. Whatever they were called, one thing was as certain as the sunrise. They were respected.
Offerings of ale, golden butter, warm milk straight from the cow, and shortbread made with care and fit for a king, were left for them on star-filled nights. And whenever they were spoken of, it was in hushed tones, like the whispered prayer of a child.
Times have changed, and they are not amused. First you killed the Dragons, the Spangled Sea Serpents and the beautiful Mermaids. Then you slaughtered the last of the Unicorns and danced your victory dance in her scarlet blood. Even her death scream didn’t stop you.
They see you now, littering the sacred woodlands with fly-tipped furniture and plastic bin bags full of household waste. They see their forests and their meadows ripped up to make way for yet another motorway. They smell the noxious fumes from your cars and your aircraft, the poisons you spray on your crops, the smoke from your factories.
They can see the planet dying – and they want you to stop.
Part of the problem, they told me, is that you have assumed ownership. You believe you have inherited the Earth, and that the leys and the water meadows, the pastures and the mountains, are yours to do with as you please. You are very wrong. At best you are gardeners, placed here to nurture and to cherish the planet. But they see you mostly as thieves, seeking to bring about chaos.
It is time, they told me, for those of you who care, to speak to the Nations of Man. To reveal the damage you are doing to this, your only home. But they warned me that you would not listen. Too much, you enjoy the freedom that your cars and your aircraft offer you, your warm baths, your cheap clothing made from the sweat of slavery. You believe that your supermarkets offer you freedom of choice, when in fact, they are dictating to you what to eat and when.
Your children run wild, beating up the vulnerable and stealing from their elders to support their habits. There are homeless beggars on the streets of every city – whilst empty homes crumble and fall in the name of progress. And you call this civilisation.
They tell me that this will end. They will not allow you to poison the planet any longer. The time of gentle nurturing is gone. This is your final warning. From now on, it’s war!