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 beautiful,
As by budding youth
It is forgotten, and rediscovered.
And I, to be found in concert
With those whose ears are plugged and stopped
Whose cherry lips drip with wine
And whose dazzled eyes now are overwhelmed.
No great toll it is for me
To sit speaking with them,
For the whole of this land,
The mass of their worlds
Is sliding closer to the
End of time.