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Messahala Apostrophizes
The astrolabe – how it depresses me!
The thing’s too perfect, no room left to grow.
Repeat, refine, reduce – a legacy
from which no vital spring can ever flow.
The thing’s too perfect! No room left to grow,
no seas to sail. The time is out of joint.
We made it our religion just to know,
but failed to think we’d reached this nadir-point.
No seas to sail. The time is out of joint!
We once sought distant moons and unknown suns,
but failed. To think – we’ve reached this nadir-point!
The Sultan’s poet plays around with puns.
We once sought distant moons and unknown suns,
while shallowness possessed us, unawares.
The Sultan’s poet plays around with puns,
as modern aesthetes shape the harem stairs.
While shallowness possessed us, unawares,
Venetian warships anchored off the coast.
As modern aesthetes shape the harem stairs,
the fortune-tellers fail to spot, engrossed,
the palace guards, abandoning their post.
Repeat, refine, reduce – a legacy
that stultified a people. Yet we boast
the astrolabe. How it depresses me!
Copyright ©
Michael Coy
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