“Ornate the cyclothymic dirge
with vibrant blades as tempered,
a voice so resonant;
provoke my banished Envy,
Father,
for I long to chant along.
For have our Orators
not failed,
have they not failed so thoroughly?
Untied hands, they are,
not instruments by prior choice;
Hands who bear purpose,
marble by glorious marble!
And in the hands of statues so grand
lay our shattered skulls appeased,
ever oblivious to our offspring,
bone and blood,
who naught but humble roofs are bound to seek
beneath these oh so glorious hands.
And have our sedative lies to them
not failed,
have they not failed so silently?
Eyes sewn shut, they are,
for no illusions could we conjure;
Eyes who bear corridors,
torch by feeble torch!
And in light as dim, behold,
lay our broken fraud so naked,
dismay lies still in a scorched hand
as clenched,
a hand which naught but stairs would raise
before these oh so bitter eyes.
Alas, have our very Fathers
not failed in awe,
have they not failed so perfectly?
Words devoid of will, they were,
not once means of forging force;
words who only bore tales,
lie by loathsome lie!
And in glades of such grand tales
lay Orators legion so enthralled,
drenching our offspring in obedience,
do ut des,
who only Exemplar Fathers would seek
amidst these oh so glorious tales.
So adorn our blackened shrouds
with vibrant blades as crimson;
provoke my Envy you so nobly banished,
Father,
for I long to chant along.
For oh so few are we.”
-From Gabriel Turner's correspondence
