These clouds departed some time ago

Above whence Freud had clucked his clicker
Where a fiery pit burnt below

And all manner of passion flicker

For all virtue and justice, by chance
History made destiny quicker

Soft! I beg Thee, sitting there in trance

I beg Thee, Statesman, only to see
What is to become of the Romance

This celestial orb enchants me

Turning the waters which consume all
Tilting its head so suggestively

From full, to half and crescent, I stall

In the light of loveliness astray
Abandoned to some dead King’s great fall

Children, by day, will search as they may

But without the eyes of the Titans
Their senses may lead them far astray

Father Time plays his old tricks again!

And son, after father after son,
When will Humanity grow tired, when?

Callousness may trust in Romance gone

But we cannot be, so easily
Forget Time’s changes, and how they wrong

Spires fall beside their economies

Grieving murderers multiply so
Victims are made of minorities

Romance turns a minority too

Where the red of blood is literal
Where flags and photographs too may rue

Yet, where literature is pit’ful

Image of Father Time and Baby New Year via Wikipedia