This question has been asked before:
where does your new road lead to?
As before, we leave before it is answered.
Unsmilingly you return to your grave womb
with acquiescence -
stiffening into rigor-mortis before your last breath.
All that live, die,
and you live, spread out
upon lushly acred playing fields and over sonorous years,
so you must die.
But die in time:
death is determined, not by Time, but by achievement
when living becomes unnecessary;
not when you show glimpses of approaching maturity.
Listen to Councils Past!
Listen to ships which have passed in your nights:
you told them of beautiful Scheherezade and Araby
but they have only seen false tales and sandalwood scents.
Yet still, in their youth they know about splendour!
Through the Pilot's eyes,
your splenderous lights have dimmed behind odorous barbs.
He sees your crew
waking from their opiate sleep to understand failure,
to see mists come upon obscure dreams,
to see incomplete desires of attaining incomplete visions,
to see deceitful attempts at macarising lust;
with tears in his eyes
the Pilot listens to your echolalia.
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