By Michael Linden, Sri Lanka
When the superb generation arose It was not immediately apparent. There were no fireworks, for instance, No great proclamations, Just the intimate tremoring circumstance That something had changed. For a while, we ignored the insistent Humming that came from we knew Not where, or a great cadenza perhaps Resounding in the bowels of the immortal Earth. We were deaf to everything, sublimely Ignorant of the coming storm: a cataclysm. Of course, the years went slowly by. They needed to grow, these strong Passionate provocateurs. How they chafed At the bit, almost choking on the bland Lies, the feeble doctrines which we fed Them day by day. Such excrement! But they survived. Of course they did, Happily congregating in huge numbers Blocking the serpentine traffic of our dying Insinuations. They would not tolerate, no They would not tolerate the reckless tourniquets, The twisted impressions we offered them. There was no hope. What we had called Civilization and its politics disappeared In the twinkle of an eye. The lithe bodies Of our youthful saviours loomed above us. All was now lost but for them a new planet Grew, green and untainted in the mellow air.