Thoth, Hermes, the stylus,
the palette, the pen, the quill endure,
though our books are a floor
of smouldering ash under our feet;
though the burning of the books remains
the most perverse gesture
and the meanest
of man's mean nature,
yet give us, they still cry,
give us books,
folio, manuscript, old parchment
will do for cartridge cases;
irony is bitter truth
wrapped up in a little joke,
and Hatshepsut's name is still circled
with what they call the cartouche.
But we fight for life,
we fight, they say, for breath,
or what good are your scribblings?
this – we take them with us
beyond death; Mercury, Hermes, Thoth
invented the script, letters, palette;
the indicated flute or lyre-notes
on papyrus or parchment
are magic, indelibly stamped
on the atmosphere somewhere,
forever; remember, O Sword,
you are the younger brother, the latter-born,
your Triumph, however exultant,
must one day be over,
in the beginning
was the Word.
- H.D.
