But what, indeed. A gilded mesh you have woven with your robbery, thefts picked tenderly through literature's fineries. Bring your spoils to the craftsman and mend and bend a dress of mail to wear over your soft and tender poet's heart. Vagrant, you cowards know what a sword doth make the inky pen, the blotting singing lark. Writer, you know what chaos and murder your wretched pen will start, and yet you must speak. You must write your truths, knowing they will be the match to burn pyres of living things.
Cheery intent in the inking and so very wretched in the scrapping away of, the tearing away at. Yet, still appreciative always of the verbal Sirens. Sirens who sing and lure and truly convince us that we who were mere and mortal men can feel what immortal words have felt. Glory to the lasting language, whilst penning hand sat at last finally still, and rotted, as minds rotted before the words were inked. Leave us wreaked with their wisdom!
Poet! Poet! Harpy, who stirs us with dreams of flight, and dreams of lusty emotions, of feathery flighty battle and life! Harpies, poets, mere men who will pick our bones after we have fallen to our deaths. Men who killed themselves, killed their dreams. Where is the phoenix to fly from the ashes of the fantastic!
The fawn will sing over our depthless graves and our spirits will allow their hearts to be convinced that this is all as it should be, for the fawns are there, the spirits there, merry and dancing. Bring science to her knees, in sacred lore of heart and magic and the craftsmanship of the stars that we will die to believe. Bring science to her knees.
Science killed magic, science tore the harpy in half, saying to one half, "Woman" and to the other half, "Bird." Science left the woman sinking in her heart for flight and the bird crying in its breast for love. Science killed dreamers and dissected dreams. And yet, it was that curiosity to know the mechanism of miracle, that gave in the bitter poets hand a pen, and said “You, now Philosopher.”