“Free your mind,” said the healer, though in haste.
Seven years wrapped in barbed wire have vanished.
Tetrahedral spires now litter the waste.
Who but for design could be thus famished?
So take these healing hands and withdraw them,
No Ozymandian grass can still stand.
Destiny, the only myth that saw them,
Now takes its repose in freshly wet sand.
Was this your medicine, food for the soul?
Take a sip of the curative you made.
Watch trees grow in this ever gaping hole,
Until seven years shall make their leaves fade.
Then this shall be the will of what was healed:
To you my hope, to them my sense I yield.