Prophecies of the License-Bearers (An Ancient Chant

Hear now, grandchildren of the combustion age, as the bones of the earth tremble beneath your wheels. We, the forgotten travelers—the dust of footpaths, the ghosts of wagon trails, the whispers of canoe routes—speak through the exhaust fumes that hang heavy in the air.

Once, we measured journeys by sunrises. Now you count them in exit numbers. Once, we navigated by the grandmother moon; now you stare into the glow of navigation screens, blind to the owl's flight across your headlights.

The sacred sites of your people?
—The DMV's fluorescent-lit chapels
—The oil-stained altars of quick-lube shops
—The roadside shrines of plastic flowers and broken glass

You carry our blood in your veins but gasoline in your tanks. Remember: every parking lot was once a meadow where children chased fireflies. Every highway interchange covers the burial grounds of a thousand ancient oaks.

When the examiner hands you that laminated card, they give you more than legal permission—they grant you the right to reshape the world with your recklessness. That little rectangle is a death spell or a life vow, depending on your hands upon the wheel.

We see you, tapping your foot impatiently at red lights, as if time itself owes you seconds. We watch you, swerving through traffic like salmon fighting a current that wasn't there yesterday. We weep for you, strapped into your climate-controlled pods, windows rolled up against the smell of rain on warm asphalt.

The road sings an eternal war chant now:
—The wail of ambulances is its new death song
—The thump of bass from passing cars is its artificial heartbeat
—The hiss of tires on wet pavement is the serpent of old, warning you still

Drive if you must, but know this: the asphalt will outlast you. Long after your electric cars go silent, the concrete will remain—cracking slowly as the earth takes back what you paved over. And our voices? We will still be here, whispering through your Bluetooth speakers when the signal fades, humming in the whine of transmission belts, sighing in the last gasp of a dying battery.

You wanted progress? Here it is—a highway to the horizon. But remember who you buried beneath the overpasses.

—The Ghosts of All the Roads Not Taken