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.