The Sage Checks the Weather

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The cold comes back, though they still say
The oceans will rise, tomorrow or today
But the meter sticks lie, or don't at all
Hard to know, unless you make the call
And who else can know such anymore
When SCIENCE IS DEAD, men can ignore
Each journal as a provincial power
Each has its place, as each had its hour
And while the scientific method stands
And measurements can be made with hands
Yet such a concept as science lies
It is no more now than a politician's eyes
For the things he wishes were his own
While still exists the great unknown
And the ten-thousand questions stand
But if answered it will not be by man
For science is dead, says the hospice nurse
When no one would act, the patient got worse
And passed away, now for humankind
No explanation connects the act and mind
But the one he forges by his will
But it is enslaved, weak and ill
And cannot create a thing at all
Nor hardly construct a sturdy wall
Some still pretend that science exists
Its memory a thought that long persists
Its marks upon man's feet and hands
Its dreams about far starry bands
Alas, the medium filters nothing now
It recycles only what they will allow
And the they are those who bowed the head
And prayed to their science, but science was dead.

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