Like the lost sounds of evening bells
The voices of children pealing
The last lie of innocence in papyrus away;
Not the baubled brook in joy;
The rinsing screams soliciting crude customs back,
Spreading phonetic fingers of laughter for aid;
Our tone dead heart hears nothing
But self-cloying honey, leached and leaking
From comb-cells flaccid to the bone.
These times have lost more than silver steeples or steel
Bright hope aspiring to the sun;
We poor Daedalus by sight driven lust
Watch in writhing disgust autumn unwinging us
Shearing golden trees of leaves against the brawny breeze;
What architect built the broken oak?
Our Icarus from heaven is shaken. Trust
Falling - all proven traditions past!
The lives of children in an hour glass
Tell, myths were better than this Midas dream