O angel of the ruined tower, he wrote,
The Tarot card in mind, in gratitude
That one who trod this path turned back to him
Unveiling once the smile of victory.

Now real towers fall and he escapes,
Passed on his slow way by others whose fate
Was less assured, leaving behind unknown
Thousands of men and women gone, erased;
Grateful to have, however briefly, seen
The victory of life and known its truth:
That is what the poem was about.
Grateful to have been able to pour out
The mind and heart of thakfulness in verse,
To what end or audience unknown.

Six months ago, in Afghan almost Spring,
Tatagatha's colossi were destroyed
To make more dust for those who like
Their desert bare, but leaving unimpugned
The Buddha's insight of the emptiness of all,
And illustrating it for all to see.

Today's iconoclasm destroys more,
Living icons of the living God, and one
Would be enough to damn the souls
Of all the Prophet's hordes, except
The God they curse is not their enemy,
But bears their punishment on his own back.

Dharma is not refuted by the void,
Nor Gospel by slaughter of the innocent;
Even Islam may yet redeem itself
By making true submission to Allah,
For there is nothing lacking but the will.

The will depends upon the intellect, the hand
Upon the eye. Blind faith of fear begot
Brings forth the fruit of death. The mind,
The eye, must open to the light, despising not
The images: in images we think,
In image body forth our love and hate.

From th' Incomprehensible himself proceeds
The consubstantial Word, enfleshed as Man:
In this same Image are we made. To mock
Triunity and incarnation as these do
Leaves those who do not match their images
No right to walk the earth or breathe the air:
Unholy warfare, man enraged at God
And all the works of God, Man most,
And most of mankind Woman, who brought forth
The living Word now clothed in our own flesh,
Ourselves into the Godhead taken up.

How shall he live, who lives by accident,
More strictly speaking, Providence?
Shall he now live as dead to world, to self, to dreams,
To ghosts of dreams long dead, to bitterness
That took their place in chill and numb of heart?
Can he be faithful to a dream reborn,
Perhaps embodied in illusion, and
Illusion but another name for that
Sacred image and word proceeding from
The divine center of the human soul?

Endure the unendurable a little yet,
Be glad each day is over, and the next.
Admit no enmity with mortal flesh;
In time of war speak only words of peace.
Worship your God, alone if it need be,
Protect the child from violent despair.
Attend the rites of beauty as you can,
Content that it exists, not craving more.
Embrace philosophy, ruler of souls.
Do not neglect frivolity when due:
Dress up for the blue moon of masquerade.
Find a pay phone that works and make your calls,
Walk back uptown on tired, aching legs.

O angel of the ruined tower, if
Beneath the veil you wear an earthly smile
(As it has been suspected more than once:
Composer, bureaucrat geneticist,
German dentist or jive-ass Brooklyn broad),
Bear the projection well, for life is short,
And rare the chance to make a difference.