A Philosopher’s Grief

We sit together in the shadowed halls beyond time— Plato, Socrates, Spinoza, Protagoras, Aristotle, Pythagoras, Kant, Descartes, Aquinas— our words once rivers, now dust in the mouths of men. I, Plato, speak first: “I left you the Sun, the realm beyond your cave of illusions— but you turn your face from the light, content with dancing shadows.” Socrates leans forward, his eyes burning with quiet fire: “I said, I know that I know nothing, but you still clothe ignorance in arrogance, mistaking noise for wisdom.” Spinoza raises his head to the heavens: “I told you God and Nature breathe as one— but you split them apart with the knife of pride, searching for the divine in the clouds, while trampling it underfoot.” Protagoras’ voice cuts the air: “Man is the measure of all things— yet you measure yourself by gold, by conquest, by the trembling of those beneath you.” Aristotle sighs: “I gave you the golden mean, the path between excess and deficiency— but you still feast on extremes, drunk on desire, starved of virtue.” Pythagoras strikes the table once: “I showed you the harmony of number, the music of the spheres— but you play only the drumbeat of greed, drowning the stars in smoke.” Kant’s gaze is unblinking: “I told you there are things reason can never touch— yet you batter mystery with logic, as if infinity would bow to your syllogisms.” Descartes whispers coldly: “I think, therefore I am,” but you think without being, you are without knowing, you live without awakening. And then Aquinas, heavy with sorrow, speaks last: “I showed you the marriage of faith and reason— but you have divorced them, making orphans of truth and grace alike.” We sit in silence now, watching your world from the edge of eternity— a world that thinks itself wise, yet gropes in darkness, holding the candle backwards.