The Death Of The Romantics

They waited, panting in the old street
the procession was soon to begin, and they had not eaten
understanding that the art of word and hand
will elude a famished mouth
so they looked to the mirrors of the sky
and the vanity of the world cracked, worn from age and neglect
shards of glass fell at the door of the imposing cathedral
where they still waited, panting against the stone,
with no refuge from the falling heavens
And they looked, for hunger brought curiosity back from the phantoms,
seeing at the instant fragments of dreams left unfinished
and angry, raining over those left behind
lost in ages

Today is now, present in the world with no room, right to left
the drifter with two coins encountered a waiting stranger
who asked if he would part with but one of them,
for his own frugal meal of solace
but a question was asked in return,
God wondered aloud in thunder,
small child,
would you give your hands for the tortured elders
would you lose your eyes and never see beauty from the vanished race
and would you sacrifice all that you are for the children
not borne unto you
The stranger answered aloud, without pause
dear drifter, my eyes can no longer see beauty
so they can be of no use to you
God’s tear fell, and in truth it was clear;
eternal stranger,
this is only the very smallest of your sins

So the time of the procession was at hand, a moment for kings
the panting stopped, then fanfare
the cathedral was alive with light stained,
at the foot of the high altar stood Gabriel,
his lilt trumpet in hand to herald an answer for those left behind
lost in ages
but the tone held so high a sound, that only the dogs heard the song

They ran to the old streets wildly rejoicing,
for they alone held the secret
no others heard