At the Clock Tower bathed in sparkling consumption shambling Krsna devotees are today’s army of salvation. Dusk softens the air and my sadness; even those with nowhere to go belong. Bland mooncalf faces reflect the year’s reward: Huxley’s foresight outsees Orwell or, let’s say, a pill for the masses a boot for the few. In this age of the grandchildren we expose our necks in erotic reverie at a refined distance from ancestors and their robust struggles with days — a hard life if you didn’t weaken. Of the elders’ mission to purify reality, nostalgic gruel remains. The meaning of their life was its peril, the seed that rots in the good black earth to return to daylight transfigured. We children of empty blessing take courage, take hold of our hearts.