The Far-Flung Flames on Atavistic Heights
The far-flung flames on ancient altars still
Arise in men’s imaginations. Though
Those sacral altars have no priest to kill
The lurching victim, minds can see the glow
Of holy fires four thousand years now gone.
The flarings now are still, as still as sheep
When death has opened up their throats like dawn,
Dark dawn in Hades. In our dreams in sleep
And in our daydreams we have visions of
The eons even when there loomed no shrine
With blazing sacrifices. Far above
Those later altars is that high divine
We want to worship. It is there as tall
As smoke from prayers. We need it to enthrall.