Walking alone the dusty aisles
among the oft-neglected tomes
one hears a soft melody;
the lullaby of perspective,
of place and transience.
The grass withers and the flower fades.
The story and songs of a thousand fathers and mothers
moldering in vapid succession, each crafted,
in their age, with loving precision,
left now like the oaks
which tower over the emerald-crested
mounds of the ancients
---unmarked and unnoticed
Mayhap we are best
the flickering, waning flame
lest we rest upon our tin-plated towers
singing ballads to our own gaudy magnificance
with gleeful barbarism.
Down tumbles Babel.
and return we again to dust
No. Infirmity and insignificance birth in us a new humility.
The crumbling page only stokes the coals
of eternity languishing beneathe
the gauze and glamour of desire;
the facade of accomplishment.
Better that we sip the bitter dregs of mortality
than learn the terrifying price of vanity.
Better that we as beggars
thinly sup our days
and close our eyes as grateful debtors.
The grass withers and the flower fades
and kudzu enshrines the tombs of kings.
Though bear we the brunt of this duality,
living with consternation until we sleep
and dream
yearning for final consolation,
the resolution of creation,
our eyes eastward to the crowning dawn.
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