The ancient one beseeches us to consider the possibility that what we are doing is all-wrong. A figurehead, his years beyond counting.
Smart guy at the other end of the table says he’ll take it from here. (He’s an up-and-comer.) It’s the new way. Can’t pull the plug now. The growth is measured in months, not years. Days not weeks. Like a weed.
The ancient one asks if we’ve considered what will become of the flowers once the weeds have taken-hold.
Some fail to suppress impolite chuckles.
Smart guy (a true visionary) sees soaring forests of climbing vines, self-sustaining, self enhancing, immortal—covering and subsuming, replacing all with sentient foliage.
This is the future, we all agree. Flowers, imperfect, delicate and needy will be transformed, a part of the vine and the vine a part of them, vastly improved. No room for sentiment, no cause for concern. We must look forward.
The ancient one asks us to consider a flower that has no stem, no bud, no petals no color nor fragrance. By what name shall I call you?
Smart guy is pensive. (A deep thinker)
We can’t stop it now. We’ll figure something out.
This is chilling -- though, admittedly, I may not be understanding all of it. "We can’t stop it now. We’ll figure something out." Christ! I think most people are oblivious or hypnotized, and those who are awake feel helpless and just sit back and watch as the world goes mad. But what can one person do about it, other than refuse to participate? In your mind, who exactly does that figurehead, that ancient one represent? Wait a minute... did I just totally misinterpret this?
What a beautiful photo which makes me think of wisdom and at the same time makes me feel sad after having read your poem. I like it a lot. Good ending, too!
„By what name shall I call you?“