Out on the plain…

Out on the plain, there stands
A dying house. The clouds
Hang over it; and water sits
In stagnant ponds where once
Strong footsteps wandered.

There, in the heart of everything,
A vision died. It wasn’t storm
Or strife, but just the grinding
Wheels of analytic urbanized
Complacence, born of patronage,
And pushed away, to where such things
Are gathered.

And the winds can’t wake a land that lies
Beneath the smug and knowing sleep
That learning brings,

When those who know
Have never known

A thing

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