I
From the realms of highest thinking
The view is steep –
Dazed, ’til the head whirls,
In the clouds – ’til it thunders.
– You may weep perhaps, but the wind will wipe your tear
Before it glints –
Why clamber where worlds are voids
And masterworks are – dust?! . . .
II
Yet the dark angel has lifted Ecce Homo
To bedrock’s peaks,
Where, standing alone, looking steeply down,
Man – scorns beings.
– As if he’s escaped reality, in secret,
On frail wings,
And wished to compete with his own palpable
Weight – on earth.
III
And the globe’s gravity will pull
Him into painful realms
Where no being feels its head spinning –
No being! . . . that is – happy.
– Till great dolor or a tombstone
From these safe spheres
Thrusts him again onto peaks of thought,
Into the lunacy of milky ways.
IV
For upon those heights – lies the grave of man’s Ideas,
Down in these depths – his body’s tomb;
And often what’s lofty in yesteryear
Today – touches excreta . . .
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Truth, one both reaches it and waits!