Socrates

Live by words until by those words you die;
Speak, sorrow-of such words alone, given
In the dialect of daemonic minds,
Which Athens left to rot unforgiven.
The tongue of just men’s curiosity,
Sculpted now in cold reminiscent stone,
Brings to mind what must be lost to see:
Like Oedipus the King who’s sight had grown
In blindness. I wonder: are we now him?
Lost in the shadow of dead minds, once great,
Left to make out truth from their ancient hymns,
Are we to see the knowledge left at hand,
Or turn our eyes away from where we stand?

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