In the Wake of Dear Odysseus

In the Wake of Dear Odysseus

 

Thou seeks glory and fame.

To force past ghostly figures

and their forgotten names.

But to you, my son, consider the cost;

what will you discover when all is lost?

 

Yet, I cannot say I would find a different way.

 

My son, I do despair;

the sirens awake upon boldened steps.

Yet, life it seems whispers

and surely should you have left,

fighting the jaws of mediocrity that ensnare.

 

We are born men.

Not to serve, but to live.

We must break the cycle.

 

Until the needs of the world

no longer harbor

to those

who with grotesque hands

have become the gods,

shall we breath upon the white shores.

 

Lesser men dream only at night,

when awake, their minds forgot.

Neither in sleep nor in light have you grown soft,

showing your true might.

 

Men live in quite desperation

as if fate be sealed in iron.

But you shall wrench away such bonds.

Let them rust,

not us.

For yours is a glorious fate,

whatever you shall make

 

Our hands are the gods now

for we are born free!

Look now what we can do!

Look upon the shadow cast by our hand

and bask in its might!

For we are born enlightened,

not to be the slave of idol gestures

but to design our own fate.

 

It is better to die

than to remain paralyzed

by idle hands and dulled wits.

Together we shall carry on

through callused hands and blistered feet

 

until our destiny we finally reach.

 

None made any indication

at the fall of Icarus,

Yet when they call our names

it shall ring out, beautiful and sonorous,

at the sight of our vindication

from the shackles that were our masters.

 

When your time is over,

all will be the name.

I too would push the bounds,

left by those so meek,

and land upon the shores

of the happy isles that you seek;

turning deaf ear to mournful sounds.

 

Shall you not be the man,

content in his fields where he spends his time,

but that of the masterful poet,

beautiful and terrible as the night.

They shall tell stories of you,

the heroic.

 

So that when our bones are turned to dust,

our stories shall be herald' through the halls

until the last sun sets

and in the world our memory

forever rests.

 

But to you, my son, consider the cost;

what will you discover when all is lost?