All the signs point us, look,
Back through the mists of time,
Lessons long forgotten,
Now seemingly sublime,
The world awash with oil
That no-one wants to buy.
We turn our attention
To power from the sky,
New, sleek, temples arise,
All glass, all glitz and chrome,
Sunshine that we bathe in
Heats up our modern home.
We heed those old shamen,
The sun is God, again.

Harry Rogers: Aberbanc, Sunday July 16th, 2017. Revised in the Yellow Room, 28th January 2021.