The grand old tales are silent in the hall,
The master-map is torn and cast away;
No single voice can speak for one and all,
Or name the shifting colors of the day.
The word is but a cage of hollow signs,
That hides the power moving in the dark;
Between the printed and the hidden lines,
The seeker finds no steady, glowing spark.
There is no center to the spinning maze,
No final "Truth" to crown the weary head;
Just fragments in a bright and broken haze,
And all the ancient certainties are dead.
We build our own small meanings in the sand,
With neither guide nor steady, helping hand.
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