Barefoot and amplified,
they feasted on love and understanding, and danced to the promise:
the Age of Aquarius would bring better days.
Why did they celebrate?
Their children worship golden arches.
Herded like castrated steers, heads down, eyes blank, fattened for slaughter,
following pixels towards a captive bolt gun.
The Age of Pisces is dying; the sea is turning black.
The Fisher of Men and the dutiful Virgin will fade into mythology and fable
like the Bull and God of War before them.
They’ll sit side-by-side on a white sandy shore, their feet cooled in a blue-green ocean,
their thin, mystic arms wrapped around a unicorn and a pelican.
The Age of Aquarius has begun.
The Water Bearer’s cup is full of hot air and the Lion marks
from pole to pole as the last arctic era comes to an end.