I of this generation at this time,
towards the end of this ending history,
have grown a voice to sing to you
the Sibyl's infinite mystery.

I am the divining rod
of the wisdom of a millennium,
once inscribed in Temple books,
now spoken from a dark proscenium.

You're not that far from your parents.
Their ghosts are brightly trembling
with the heat of pleasure in mortal life
that sets all spirits rambling.

The forgotten languages of your forebears
whisper from undulating leaves;
insects carry the taste of a Caesar's
betrayal in their genes.

Beaches perpetually reconfigure
Paris and Helen's coition;
trees feel the ache of Christ in their veins
and bleed sap in contrition.

The dead have not abandoned you,
but you won't find them intact
in the sleepless ink of the bathysphere.
You can't woo them back.

When you travel galaxies to fulfill
the secret mission of all passages
there will be no one waiting, no beloved
face, nor its tangible ravages.

The tribal legacy you inherit
exists in dust of the street;
the stones that seem so sharp in your path
were smoothed by your mother's feet.

The gods are gone but you remain
to flirt with annihilation.
The Capitoline library
deserved conflagration.

Count yourself lucky not to know
how the future will be bent.
Knowledge ruins everyone
and is itself indifferent.