We paved over our months and our hours
The same time we covered the forests and flowers.
The calendar directs our time
With lights and signals, man-made lines
That leave our fourth dimension lamed,
Though culture's not alone to blame.
The world – the wild and the paved –
Appears before us every day
Until, as though behind a cloud
The sights don't come through quite as loud.
Life's less than human, less than whole.
Routine and habit blind the soul.
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