A million years ago, when earth was young,
Our ancestors created the beginnings;
A home, a hearth, brought forth a mother tongue;
Bequeathed humanity a mind that sings.
Throughout the ages blood, and sweat, and toil
Wrung beauty from the dung-filled soil and clods,
But now we are engaged in new turmoil,
With mindless logic, numbers as our gods,
And information, purposeless, mere chance
Heaps scorn on meaning, turns art to photograph.
But as for me, I choose the human dance,
It's not the destination, it's the path.
If this be error, and so convinced my heart,
I never lived, nor ever worshiped art.