Thanks for sharing @d-pend.
This poem begins with nostalgic feelings. I felt the same way when I discovered these stone bridges used on old farms in Korea. I wondered who was silly enough to walk on these narrow bridges seemingly going nowhere. Then I realized they were aqueducts used in the past to bring water to the farm.
Suddenly it hits me that this poem is not about nostalgia. In times of peace and warm sun no one considers the winter that this poem eludes to in a catastrophic way.
Like blood vessels to the body, aqueducts are the arteries of the biosphere. Everything we built up in civilization whether buildings or digital media are not different from these ruins of ancient aqueducts. After Mount Vesuvius erupted no living thing remained. The thermal energy released was greater than that of a nuclear explosion, but still parts of these aqueducts stand.
We are wrapped up in a cocoon called the vessels of men. An escape from here is like a nuclear fallout. Now I'm stuck in this cocoon too. Maybe you would say, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Oh, given that you have surrendered you will see a butterfly born soon.
This is the magic of our cocoon.