Explosions erupt my eye’s illusions—
A reenactment faces false stupors;
Faring music distant, betwixt commotion,
Swooned by Calamity’s folk-y torpor;
Marooned from life’s screaming mortality;
The Sky reeled out-way, slightly, utter so;
Placed beyond Complexity’s eternal vitality,
In the Bull Roar and Straw-horn’s privy note;
Foreign roots defame the native tongues,
With scents from olden fires cooking,
Here stood Tradition’s Pillar ever long,
Retracing what Youth finds too forgetting;
Soon the days of old again pass and fade,
And leave within us all the Folk-toys of Age.
