The smoke clears too easily,

And it makes me anxious,

Commemoration induces amnesia,

And the only true words are buried in spirals of black and silver.

Across the plain two young men sit with eyes of emblazoned hazel,

With joy as a distant country,

I know them both but not in the way of promise,

Haphaestion bears my heart; alas his sleeve is torn,

And my cufflink now hidden in the dirt of Hypoborea.

When the clouds pass perhaps this land of hedonism 

Will truly clothe us from this world’s insinuation.

An apothecary follows on my right and eyes me with an air of suspect,

Does he know something I do not?

I think not, but who could say?

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,

But would a scent by any other visage cause such nostalgia?

A seal of approval is always an object of desire,

Yet a seal himself would suffice, a taste of freedom in ignorance?

Once again I think not, they indeed know more than we ever shall,

So for now we shall see each other only by colour or number,

Yet I speak not of prejudice or relation to thereof,

But of knowledge, little more than a Heteronomous gift.

Anger dwells in the recesses of my soul, cloaked in Superbian wings.

Is it right to fear Nihilism? It does not breed what it believes in,

But then to plagiarise life itself seems all too easy,

But what is to be said when all is said and done?

A curse which comes from no deeper than the back of the throat?

A plea from the nerves of the back of the neck?

All perhaps to fall on deaf ears from a mute mouth.

I think not,

I think not,

I think not!