Of all that rules the human heart,
the last of the Old Masters understood fear
to be the most deadly; how its wield in politics,
like a blade in the hands of legionnaires or labourers
could topple, without discrimination, both men and wheat;
how its commanding faith was unquestioned,
as if it were that ineffable Word itself, excepting
by sceptics beneath their unpainted ceilings.

As in his Pilgrimages;
those hordes slouching to a miracle beyond the frame
forgot the straggler who, unheard by his creator,
wailed endlessly on that sole-aching journey
where the cloaks and banners of each devotee
hung limp and uninspired.

The deaf man prayed only to distraction—
to forget those wars of politics and faith
where men fell in the dirt with their crude cudgels
and dogs retreated to the fringe,
so as not to limp their lives away
knowing only the wickedness of power.