Published graciously at The Brazen Head
I see how Socrates, in fact, is dead.
All talk of immortality aside,
There is no touch of it in that bald head.
His daimon will not stay to be our guide.
I see as well the prize the just are paid –
The bastard filches birthright from the heir,
The best of kings go mad and die betrayed,
As doves go gracing, landless, through the air.
Grass pushes up between the garden stones,
As mobs push through the guard at courts of law,
As maggots push and eat between the bones
Of some philosopher, the rib and jaw.
Then come on, wildness; blast both weak and strong
Since nothing is forever, or for long. 1
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