Socrates
A rounded nose, an oval head,
a naked body with a humble spread,
a ragged cloth across his chest,
a darkened face where sternness rests,
a jaw severe with power untold,
a voice that rings with manhood bold.
In the land of wisdom’s flame,
after peace had made its claim,
youths approached with reverent eyes,
pressing against the temple’s side.
They bowed, they touched his feet with dust,
their garments smeared in humble trust.
“O Master, teacher, guide divine,”
He smiled a little, spoke with ease:
“I am but a wanderer of worldly seas.
a serpent of time that never ceased—
sleeping, coiled, with endless pride,
guarding your culture, fangs spread wide.
Your laws, your morals, vainly pressed,
as if from thought mere waters leapt.
The serpent slips into its hole,
lamenting truth it cannot hold.”
The youths replied: “O sage, O guide,
the pain of justice is strong, not lied.
We look upon your noble brow,
we long to learn—tell us now:
what form of rule, what guiding hand,
may shape the people, rule the land?
The state is born, its work begun,
but bulls unyoked in madness run.
O Master, speak before we fall,
truth seems twisted, darkened, small.”
Then Socrates, with gaze so clear,
spoke: “What endures with human care
cannot be ruined by futile loss,
truth is not broken by time’s cross.
The world has wisdom, seeds of flame,
yet time must ripen, not just claim.
The mind of man must learn to grow,
though temples fall, though faith lies low.
To prove oneself is man’s own need,
human will must sow the seed.
For truth lives on, though falsehood plays,
and in its course, one law must stay:
Faith in man by man alone—
that is the mortar of state, of throne.”
He paused, then veins upon his throat
swelled with passion, words afloat:
“Clear away the rubble, the waste,
Question! Question!—till the end,
till no false answer dares pretend.
Strike with arrows of inquiry deep,
till silence is all that power keeps.”
a naked body with a humble spread,
a ragged cloth across his chest,
a darkened face where sternness rests,
a jaw severe with power untold,
a voice that rings with manhood bold.
after peace had made its claim,
youths approached with reverent eyes,
pressing against the temple’s side.
They bowed, they touched his feet with dust,
their garments smeared in humble trust.
“O Master, teacher, guide divine,”
“I am but a wanderer of worldly seas.
a serpent of time that never ceased—
sleeping, coiled, with endless pride,
guarding your culture, fangs spread wide.
as if from thought mere waters leapt.
The serpent slips into its hole,
lamenting truth it cannot hold.”
the pain of justice is strong, not lied.
We look upon your noble brow,
we long to learn—tell us now:
what form of rule, what guiding hand,
may shape the people, rule the land?
but bulls unyoked in madness run.
O Master, speak before we fall,
truth seems twisted, darkened, small.”
spoke: “What endures with human care
cannot be ruined by futile loss,
truth is not broken by time’s cross.
yet time must ripen, not just claim.
The mind of man must learn to grow,
though temples fall, though faith lies low.
human will must sow the seed.
For truth lives on, though falsehood plays,
and in its course, one law must stay:
that is the mortar of state, of throne.”
swelled with passion, words afloat:
Question! Question!—till the end,
till no false answer dares pretend.
till silence is all that power keeps.”
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