Among progresses losses, tally myths,
Myths which sustained our kind
As steady as Nile-fed Africa;
Myths then nixed
in favour of the modern ethos,
Their sacred narratives tabooed.
Life’s turbulence a given,
progressives held Progress
as comfort enough.
But say of comfort,
Is there ever enough?
Progress we know
speaks not of her losses;
Gains are her strain,
If not for the lyceum’s faithful,
Those cooped up with candlelight and pen,
none would survive her.
Thanks to them, an index lives
Showing what Progress would not tell,
Providing a glimpse of what was lost
Or stolen from the gallery of gods.
As a child I heard of his power and warmth,
His tales I learned by heart;
But in a classic moment of conflict, men
slingshotted him from their hearts.
Years multiplied before the fateful news arrived
That tonight we might witness his explosive end.
He halted so long I believed
A nanosecond more and heaven would’ve
surrendered her ashes,
And together we would float
into the great unknown.
But he spun
Spun like a fiery boulder,
Spinning out myths,
In my mind at least.
Meanwhile, around me
Folks limp with disappointment,
Only more so now than before.
Had they not witnessed infinite fidelity,
The right of which rests with Gods alone?
And why deny him, when we struggle —
A people with neither might nor heros,
A people confused about who to pledge
poverty, chastity and obedience?
I am not ashamed to waver:-
A fishnet full quickly converts
starving farmers into fishermen.
Call me your man, Athena,
Dear goddess of wisdom and reason;
Let’s forget that we ever failed each other.
It was by another’s deviousness we tendered all:
The pantheon, followed by the whole acropolis.
Gone with them is our faith . . . our fire.
Might’s proximity to Chaos revealed
that all our representatives are myths untold, and
not unlike the sun, servicing its own fiery dreams.
No, I am not ashamed to waver;
Myths brought a certain order
this darkness has not,
And so I beg for us all.