We are the overburden they must remove first. They must mine flesh before they blow up the hills. I apologize to the creatures and plants of the hills, to the first nations that understand them better, for my poor interpretations as my poem/spears attempt to "sound my barbaric yawp across the rooftops of the world" in their behalf. If the real barbarians could clearly hear the simple song of water over stone, none of this would be needed. There are things that are not men, soulless meat bags infiltrating the last wild places, gutting them for silly green notes that they seem to suspect will enlarge their penises or attract desirable mates. In pursuit of these notes, they will stop at nothing. They are not encumbered by consciences or scruples like men, not affected by the mother spirit in their females, or beholden to the future of their spawn like men. They must not prevail here as they have elsewhere and that is all.