The Mud-Born
Poem — An Invocation To The Master #380
Published on June 12, 2022
The Mud-Born
Poem — An Invocation To The Master #380
Decorums we have none our gestures to embellish
Born as we are on the fringe of an age of iron,
Not could our eagerness afford courtesy’s flourish
For Thy last vassals can bear not subtlety’s burden.
Crude of manner and with cruder speech endowed,
All our passion amounts to this poise low,
Our works can only sum to an issue crude,
The perfect redeeming gesture we’ll never know.
Yet we press Thee with our appeal and prayer,
“We, the mud-born, aspire to Thy transcendence O Sire!”