The Song-Listeners
The globe
turns, and with it the sun behind
The mountains
follows, so petty, yet enough
To block the
orb of heaven, and let dark flow
Upon the earth,
now to sleep and slumber going.
As night falls
the lights multiply to stay the gloom
And eye delight
in rays of white. But where do
Ears turn to
seek relief from the silent doom,
Silent death of
dark, uncut by chirp or whisper?
Who will be
there to listen with me the songs
Of old, that
were worthy to add a note to heaven’s
Song of glory?
Who will be there to love the
Orphaned
granddaughter of our God – Art?
Who will muster
with me the world to beauty,
Teach it to
love again what does not sell but
Richness is
itself? Will no one care to pay but a
moment of
attention to true masters, not machines?
No one turns
their ear, busied by waste of time
On humor that
is cheap, but unlimited. No more
Does their
genius value hold, but the mindless
Who score
points and live for nothing greater.
No one cares to
listen to the poets, but to things
Which cannot
even stitch their own words, but
Must resort to
parrot-talk, and one so badly mashed
It offends the
light of reason, the dignity of death.
Yet the poets
will be the last to speak before the race
Of monsters
takes the people’s place and set
The world
ablaze with unholy fire that will
Heaven’s fury
at last bring down on the Final Day.
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