Oh this desire, always new, that rises from the loosened loam!
In the beginning, few helped the first to dare.
But nevertheless, cities rose beside enraptured harbours,
Jugs filled with water, with oil, despite all.
We made but rough sketches of our gods at first,
They who were continually overthrown by sullen Fate.
But still, they were the Immortal Ones. And look, we may yet
Come to hear of He who will finally hear us.
We are that great tribe, descended through thousands of years:
Mother, Father, filled always with the promise of the coming child
Who one day, surpassingly, will shatter us.
We are the ones endlessly in hazard, oh how much time we have!
And only silent death, the wise one, knows what we really are,
And what he can get from us in return for what he has lent us.
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet