The Elders assembled beneath the frozen Sun,
When the Wheel of the Year stood still in shadow.
They brake the Bread of Mystery,
They lifted the Wine of Vision,
And their voices rose like smoke from the altar of Time.
Lo! At every Feast the Young grow fewer,
And the Hoary Head multiplies upon the earth.
The Songs of Old no longer kindle the inward Eye,
For the Children of this Age hear them not.
The Heavens are shut; no Thunder answers prayer.
The Firmament is brass, and gives no sign.
Thus the Powers Below are forgotten,
And the Deep is emptied of its dread.
Behold! Our People waste away.
We are scattered sparks upon cold ground,
Strangers walking in an alien Land.
We wander the Waste; we tread the scorched Field;
We sleep beneath a Sun that does not know us.
One by one we pass through the Gate unseen,
Descending softly into the Kingdom of Shades,
Where names are unspoken
And memory fades into silence.
(A.I. poem inspired by William Blake)
Dreamquest 