The end of a project,
When what you wanted to create is done?
How few of us project,
To the days when what we made's long forgot,
But what was made remains,
Not of nature but embedded in it,
An epoch soon just an underground vein,
Defined as a thin layer of plastics,
Our name, Anthropocene,
A glitch in the stitch of this planet's time,
Like a shameful bad scene,
We all have those,
I can think of a few.
Will we live to bemoan or die before,
We can survive having thought life anew?
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