This message hastens lest we both go down <br />Scattered, with no character, to death; <br />Death is untutored, with an ignorant frown <br />For precious identities of breath. <br />But you perhaps will say confusion stood, <br />A vulture, near the heart of all our kin: <br />I've heard the echoes in a dark tangled wood <br />Yet never saw I a face peering within. <br />These evils being anonymities, <br />We fulminate, in exile from the earth, <br />Aged exclusions of blood memories- <br />Those superstitions of explosive birth; <br />Until there'll be of us not anything <br />But foolish death, who is confusion's king.<br /><br />Allen Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnets-of-the-blood-vii/
