Aeneas in the Twenty-First Century
In early dark or morning light
those prayers the ancients offered
might seem true: how like sunset
the burning of a hog’s entrails
in darkness. Spilt blood in bowls,
those rich vermillion rays
that bless us from the East.
supposedly superior to this
in our analysis, we still
stand bemused, shields lax
by our sides, before the threat
of night or a fresh day. We still
long for rhyme and rhythm
though we fear their certainty, those
songs that echo down the centuries.
Ours a hell the prophets could not utter,
not apothenin thelo but everything
bathed in the false light of figures—
not knowing, just learning and always
Watch them pass
through those onyx and ivory gates,
the ages melding as they cross
to a world where sign and symbol
are the same, nature untamed
and fabulous, unrestrained
by the ruinous tick of clock or chip.
Tonight we sail for Elysium: ready the ships.