Overture

Just suppose something is beyond all this.
That would require all this to be a lie
When there is no reason to believe it's a lie
Except the very craving to believe.

Why a lie? Available evidence
That there is nothing beyond all this
Can be divined from every shred of this,
Woven into every tapestry thread

From sun on the table set with a gourd,
From the gabbling of all dissolving selves
As they dissolve, from the fact that gods win
Only when believers win and vanish

When believers vanish, from the tall shelves'
Looming, shadowy, dust-struck, foxed volumes
Over the table where believers wait
For each other to say something magic,

To whisk away the black drop cloth of thought
And expose the aperture's glassy eye.
When will the clear vision come uncovered
That arrives barren in our shrouded clouds,

Never forgiving of festivities,
Ever playing damned plaintive violins?
When the cannons resound, the composer
Remains gone, never to compose again.