There are no spiritual Aurobindos left
The past is dead like a golden-petalled mist
Paternal kingdoms of heritage, gone
In solar speed our hearts are frozen
By the immortality of time, that drifts
Always immaculately forward, like a sponge
For doomstruck days and colossal sleep
The gloom and joys must both leave
The blunder of prideful countries behind
God’s stern voice no longer holds our hearts
Nor the idea that we are our own future’s make
Our future belongs to machines, who
With artificial intelligence must analyze
Big data, the godly loom of inventory
Objective and data-drive, to render men
In sustainable harmony with an unknown cosmos
The stars they weigh and wait for signs
From our primitive culture’s infamous decay.
Wuji Seshat 