No thing these days is as it seems,
And ideas… well, don’t trust them.
I pore over the all too human follies
Of dynasties and revolutions,
And create like Casaubon a sterile wisdom.
Into grey garners, I pour the husks of time.
The vital seed has long since passed away.
Lost in trash, I know the madness of the day.
My towers of discarded folly stand alone
On the outskirts of the rampaging town.
Before long, the prophecies say, the dark rider
Will take me to my trial and put all I know to fire.
Then who will be left to pick through the ash?
What druid will plant the fired seed in the ash?