Our primitive filter for the truth
Has been ripped—torn off our faces
We‘d thought we shed a mask
But our eyes rolled out for the taking
No longer can we recognize
What is real or one another
No longer can we see by Nature
Behold the nature of our Self
The nature of ourselves
Beyond to gone forever
For only our computers
Can process and predict
Make Delphic Oracle models
Of knowledge we once knew —
Maybe on the Nonce, the long gone Nonce* —
When we saw, smelt, touched and felt
We are gone as we were
And “Whan that Aprill
With his shoures soote,
The droght of March hath
Perced to the root” **
And we‘ve noticed that April
Really is the cruellest month***
Perhaps on the Nonce, revived,
We shall see and hear the Treasure Lost