In Days of Yore

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O in days of yore,
when tireless horses pulled the chariot
to the top of the castle's walls,
and countless barriers leapt over.
O in days of yore,
when every single dove flew free,
all white,
all bright.

O delicate fellow!
Thou seemed so sad!
Feathers painted black,
Harsh pathway back.

Erstwhile my own I exist do not
Taken and blended was I?
Backtracked my path, nevertheless misleading
Void

Imago Dei? Homo sapiens
Imago vacu? Homo stultus
The might, just fate of thou just too bad
What remained to be salvaged?

One way escape 
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....Infinitus est numerus stultorum.
- ....Infinite is the number of fools.
(Ecc. 1:15)