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Ars Moriendi
It is gone from us
Between our fingers like sand
Ars Moriendi
We shall never more
Find purpose or grace for it
Midas immortal
Bartholome stays
In hovels and parliament
The blade shines the sun
O Yeats, it's worse, worse
For gyres multiply like wasps
On the children's eye
The city travails
And in every place you hear
The glass shattering
Something in labour
I can't define its presence
Too cautious my eye
But we shall not find
Not till the hourglass dries, that
Ars Moriendi
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