Of those with conscience buried
Audience, had I.
To the sinister, the allegiance of such
Melodies of nativity, foreign and rare
True, were reproduced
And esteemed, among the host
Of those who would hear;
The whole of which would be my muse.
The quiver of my reed and soreness of my thumb
To them, bearing no more meaning
Than the nighttime veil, a vision
At once overwhelmingly beautiful,
But accepted as mundane ambience.
As by budding youth
It is forgotten, and rediscovered,
Such beautiful monotony.
And there sat I, to be found in concert
With those whose ears were plugged and stopped
Whose cherry lips dripped with wine
And whose dazzled eyes were then overwhelmed.
No great toll was it for me
To sit speaking with them,
For the whole of this land,
The mass of their worlds
Was sliding closer to the
End of time.