The mouse, birthed from a mountain, finds an oyster
for its crypt. The Pharaohs build not tombs,
false mountains of rebirth. When Death's dome looms
the hermit sage is bricked within his cloister.
The arch of history bends not toward Justice
but to oblivion. In Hades' halls
what once were emperors' bones now deathless dust is;
their mortar-fied remains plug crumbling walls.
The winter's flaw is faltering by spring.
What vanity to think that I could bind
Ourselves and immortality, could fling
a bottled torch into the dark behind--
Just move these stones, and, like an Orphic song...
Our shadows shall survive us. Not by long.
