Bring us some raw material of soul,
The breath of our spirit no more stinks
Creative, we are pure as a dream's aureole -
The dream of a dream of a post-card sphinx.
Our fathers knew the vital cruel
Moloch and understood
That God was light and Satan full
Necessary to high manhood.
Our fathers knew, but we are refined
Angels flitting through the skeleton boughs
Of the Tree of Life, without body, without mind,
Unearthed, occupiers of neither house:
Light or Dark
We are their children who perished without the Ark.
