With the advent of the Peripatetic Philosophers and their schools,
where students could learn to aspire,
to all that is good in life,
and the roaring success of these ventures,
came, inevitably, another sort of instruction,
one based solely on false promises,
and mutual ‘appreciation’,
In short, on rhetoric, or hot air…
very expensive hot air.
First, one yawns…
Then, one becomes drowsy…
And finally, one falls asleep.
Does the soul of a nation depend on grammar?
Is Herr Doppleganger’s military-precision derived from syntax?
Does Monsieur C’est la Vie owe more to mime?
Do the rhythms of speech dictate our thoughts as the bottle defines its genie?
The ‘God Father’ is exposed.
He hears not.
Could he hear
What to do…
of making himself
No one dreams
His dreams anymore…
Of European God-Head
Are in disarray…
Though, everywhere, the religious instinct
Sprouts and grows, vigorously…
It treats Theism
With profound distrust.
There is no better than…
Just be the best you can.
Far superior in every way to their white, red, black and yellow brethren, when the green race returned to their home planet they were not best pleased with what they found.
Mankind, such as it was, was easily subdued and once the potentially disasterous propensity to self-destruct had been removed they were once again allowed to roam freely over the planet much as a domesticated animal might.
Foraging amongst the ruined churches and temples of yore, the Old Testament of Divine Justice and the New, of Divine Mercy, were re-discovered and married together.
Thus, the green race perceived what had gone wrong with their experiment…
And so, the mighty bend low before the Saint?
The misery of his meagre apparel, the antithesis of all they strive for.
And yet, is there not something of power in renunciation?
What is it that moves behind those placid eyes?
Something steely and beyond the merely material.
What secret whisperings are those ears privvy to?
What is it that needs not their trappings
And heeds not their vainglory?