22 February 2014

# 22 - Five Hundred Years

And listen to rare starlings on the shore.
And hymn the fabled vanities of yore.
And swim against the truth for evermore.
And kiss those visions of the heretofore.

(For history's just a construct of the mind:
a simulation of what's left behind,
assimilating everything ‒ a kind
of mystery for posterity to find)

Fine words will garnish nothing but the tongue.
Fire spares the old, but mutilates the young.
File past the tombs with musket, fife and drum.
Five hundred years from here to Kingdom Come.

Come flatter me, come make my life complete ‒
a chattering of hubris and conceit.


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