Lately I am stricken
as the plots to dear and mortal earth do thicken—
kneel, kneel lest it all too readily quicken—
for like the desert winds of old Sahara,
it burns to know the subtle motions Terra
should pass me by to other eras.
Rage, rage the old man writes
yet dead is light at the sour sight
of youth so bitter cast, paralyzed by fright;
where is devotion to seek out age
where privilege become but flesh and cage,
and still the younger cry: engage, engage.