From the union of power and money,
from the union of power and secrecy,
from the union of government and science,
from the union of government and art,
from the union of science and money,
from the union of ambition and ignorance,
from the union of genius and war,
from the union of outer space and inner vacuity,
the Mad Farmer walks quietly away.
There is only one of her, but she goes.
She returns to the small country she calls home,
her own nation small enough to walk across.
She goes shadowy into local woods,
and brightly into the local meadows and croplands.
She goes to the care of neighbors,
she goes into the care of neighbors.
She goes to the potluck supper, a dish
from each house for the hunger of every house.
She goes into the quiet of early mornings
of days when she is not going anywhere...
From the union of anywhere and everywhere
by the purchase of everything from everybody at the lowest price;
from the union of work and debt, work and despair;
from the wage-slavery of the helplessly well-employed.
From the union of self-gratification and self-annihilation,
secede into care for one another
and for the good gifts of Heaven and Earth...
