I once took myself, to a vanity fair

just to witness quietly, not  to dare

I chose a secluded, peaceful nook

and down I sat with all my books

 

I watched sages pouring in

Hermits, Pundits, brandishing;

their books, scrolls, and intellect,

stern faces and growing necks

 

Poets, authors, kept marching in

runners, jugglers and science kins

the trumpet blew and the crowd settled

holy preachers of God nestled

 

Magic was cast as logic was freed

faith writhed but did not concede

Men of heart fell and prayed

theorists bled and reason frayed

 

Painters drew and beauty blandished

Writers wrote with words candid

singers sang and the listeners danced

actors acted and the mob was tranced

 

But nothing moved the goddess of pride

no charms could awe her veteran eyes

no skill or gift was vain enough

to make the judge scratch her scruff

 

until it came silently, a “tragedy”

in a gown of ancient tears, assuredly

her crimson eyes, and vicious stares

all greats and wise, pulled their hair

 

The goddess fell recklessly, in her feet

There she is, there she is, there she is

“A tragedy forged into a means to scorn”

Not a thing more vain that I have known

 


 

Arqum

13/1/2016

(109)

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