When Gods traversed the earth and toyed with humankind
for sport, all matter could give birth. Fecundity
of mind, where thought was parent to the deed, sparked life
in such absurdity that wars were waged to weed
our garden Paradise and the humble knife turned
from dinner tables to the rite of sacrifice.
Even Heaven burned and this Golden Age, reduced
to fables, became the symbol for childhood
lost. No more do we engage the mountains in wise
conversation, nor are we seduced by maidens
in the lake, nor yet afeared of the wildest wood.
And so we pay the cost for wounding the world's soft,
mud packed face. All games end in enterprise, in cheap
sensation; as gardens turn to middens and break
our covenant with ancient powers. On the slopes
of Olympus, we build aloft the gold half-rings
that celebrate our new place apart from Nature.
We steep ourselves in the sour wine of wasted hours,
as our hopes lose impetus and all sacred things
are mere superstition, where Gods have no future.
