Squint-Eyed Timon

The descendants of Christendom
Remain, unknowingly, haunted
By specters from the destructions
Of most of their pre-Christian worlds—

Celtic, Germanic, colonized,
Of course, but earlier than those,
The burned classical libraries,
The smashed and mutilated art,

The echoing unlit caverns
Hinted at by stray quotations
From collections lost to the dark—
Sin against the original

Core of what would become “the West,”
Cataclysmic rupture greater
Than any loss experienced
In a more continuous “East.”

Compositions are acts of faith
Preservation is possible,
But the descendants of the West
Carve their thoughts and commentaries

Within traditions that contain
The knowledge from experience
Faith also holds a burning sword
And serves as the angel of death.

Why should such poets not assume,
Within a few generations,
The whole of this age won’t evaporate
In the faith of the next dispensation?