Would we have dreamed up dying gods
who sink down into death?
Would we have thought some sacrifice
could stir them with new breath?
Would blood of bulls or lambs or babes
exhibit power when spilt?
Would we, like tropic natives, live
and die not knowing guilt?
Would we weep over labors lost
and mourn our days of toil?
Would we be children of the trees,
not tillers of the soil?
If every night the constant stars
unveering would appear,
who'd know Demeter's mysteries
or measure out a year?
What vegetation myths are told
in gardens of delight?
Who yearns for light-filled afterlife
when plenty fills the sight?
Would we, marking our steady days,
long miss migrating geese?
Would second comings draw our praise?
Would we seek golden fleece?
Our dreams, our myths, our archetypes,
our Christs, our virgin births,
our metaphors, our winds of change,
our words, our sense of worth,
our foundations and bedrock truth
on airy nothing's built:
We swing around that boiling sun,
and spin upon a tilt.
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