RERUM CONCORDIA DISCORS

The white-coats split their skulls

on atoms and they will

never know how rich 

 is the whole twisted thing.

The chosen ones?

But they, too, 

lay down their souls

for answers.

Philosophers,

how far you are from Greece,

having traded your discovery

— for what?

Prestige and meat.

But we know, you and I, 

the meaning of 

the moon and sky, 

the undulating mountains 

and the endless sea,

the depth of black,

the sphinx.

How they mock us,

and how beautiful.