Their seeds overbearing,
And the shades cold to the touch,
Of voices that sung without rest
But to the deafness of daylight,
And the silentest reproaches,
Of dreams of fever that receded
With calm and joy,
And the end times for our hopes,
We who wished,
We who searched,
We abhor your knowing,
Your light cast into the world.
Lest we become useless,
As those come before us.
