Scheherazade

K. HASSAN

I

In a kingdom vast, where dawn once spun its gold,

Minarets like lyres of starlight, sharp and bold,

Their spires, once kissed by moonlight’s saffron veil,

Now splintered, lean toward a void where dreams grow pale.

Rivers, once a chorus of eternal springs,

Choke on grief’s ash, where no soft zephyr sings.

In bazaars where rosewater swirled with silken cries,

Dust weaves a shroud, and silence scars the skies.

II

Temples, crowned with shards of astral flame,

Wail with shadows, chanting sorrow’s name.

Where jasmine bled its scent in endless bloom,

Now barren clay entombs the garden’s doom.

Winds, once heavy with a poet’s fevered song,

Bear screams of maidens, lost in night too long.

Beneath a moon that weeps in crimson dread,

The stars recoil, their ancient light unfed.

III

Shahrayar, whose throne once flared with radiant law,

His heart a stream where justice carved its awe,

Was shattered by a queen’s deceit, a blade of lies,

Her love a venom, clouding heart and eyes.

In wrath’s cold forge, he wove a curse to bind the air,

Each night a bride, her beauty but a fleeting prayer,

At dawn her blood, a toll to still his soul’s despair,

A scarlet flood to mark his reign’s unyielding glare.

IV

The azure vault, once pulsing with a lover’s dream,

Now cloaks itself in gloom’s eternal seam.

The sands, once gold, where sunlight wove its grace,

Bear death’s red stain, a mirror to disgrace.

In Ctesiphon, where poets spun their timeless lore,

The people cower, hearts too bruised to soar.

Each dawn a scythe, each night a wound that festers deep,

The kingdom’s pulse a dirge where only shadows creep.

V

Yet in this waste, where time dissolves to dust,

A flame erupts, unyielding, fierce with trust.

Shahrazad, her name a rose that pierces night,

A beacon spun from shards of cosmic light.

Her hair a dusk where galaxies entwine,

Her eyes a poet’s gaze, where stars align.

No mortal she, though mortal flesh she bears,

Her soul a tide that drowns celestial fears.

VI

In groves where cypresses claw the velvet sky,

Where moonlight fractures, bleeding secrets dry,

Vazir, the sage, with eyes like molten stars,

Holds tales of love beneath the night’s old scars.

His robes, a shimmer of the silken void,

His voice a river where despair’s destroyed.

To him she kneels, her heart a flame unbowed,

Her prayer a chant to pierce the sorrow’s cloud.

VII

“O Keeper of the Word,” her voice a comet’s arc,

“Teach me the art to mend the shattered dark.

For Shahrayar’s grim hand consumes our land,

Each dawn a pyre where maidens’ hopes are banned.

I seek the tales that thread the soul’s deep vein,

To heal the king and break our land’s cruel chain.”

Vazir, his gaze a sea where time’s tides cease,

Sees in her soul a light that knows no peace.

VIII

“Child of the rose,” he speaks, his voice a knell,

“Your words will sing where mortal hearts must dwell.

Beyond the gods, where heavens’ edges fray,

Your tales will burn the dark to endless day.”

Through nights uncounted, under myrrh-drenched boughs,

She drinks the lore that fate itself allows.

Of sailors bold who brave the sea’s wild scream,

Of lovers true who weave a timeless dream.

IX

Of cities lost where rivers carve their doom,

Of truths that flare within the heart’s deep gloom.

Each tale a thread within a cosmic weave,

Each word a spark that mortals may believe.

Vazir’s low thunder shapes the ancient art,

And Shahrazad holds worlds within her heart.

Her mind, a labyrinth where myths and stars collide,

Her soul, a flame no shadow can abide.

X

Of heroines bold who dance with blades of light,

Of mothers fierce who guard the fading night.

Of poets wise who sing with timeless breath,

Of maidens bold who triumph over death.

The sage, his eyes like embers in the void,

Beholds in her a power unalloyed.

“Your tales,” he says, “are more than mortal song,

They hold the might to right a kingdom’s wrong.”

XI

“Go forth, my child, and face the shadowed throne,

For in your words, redemption shall be sown.”

When tidings come, another bride to fall,

Her blood to stain the palace’s marble hall,

Shahrazad’s heart, with righteous fury stirred,

Proclaims a vow the heavens’ ears have heard.

“I’ll face the king,” she swears beneath the stars,

“And break the chains that bind our souls in scars.”

XII

Vazir, his tears a river in the night,

Cries, “Child, you tread where gods recoil in fright.”

But she, her will a spire that splits the sky,

Replies, “My tales will soar where shadows die.”

Through Ctesiphon, where lanterns weave their glow,

She walks, a flame to quell the tides of woe.

The city weeps, their prayers a fevered chant,

Yet none can halt her, resolute and daunt.

XIII

Her tales, her shield; her courage, her command,

She marches forth to save her ancient land.

The winds grow still, the stars above ignite,

As Shahrazad pursues her fated light.

Through bazaars where spice and silk entwine,

She bears the hope where mortal hearts align.

In halls of marble, draped in veils of dusk,

Where chandeliers burn faint with amber musk.

XIV

She stands before the throne, a shadowed pyre,

Where Shahrayar, consumed by vengeful fire,

Sits crowned in thorns, his eyes a winter’s frost,

His soul a labyrinth, locked and long since lost.

“What fool comes here to meet a certain end?”

His voice a scimitar, no mercy to extend.

She smiles, her gaze a comet through the gloom,

“I bring a tale to break your heart’s entomb.”

XV

The court grows still, their breath a fragile thread,

As Shahrazad’s voice sings of life, not dread.

Of seas where tempests roar with primal might,

Of sailors lost who find a sacred light.

Of heroines bold who brave the void’s embrace,

And carve their truth in destiny’s vast space.

Her words, like embers, flare within his mind,

A spark to wake the light he left behind.

XVI

As dawn’s pale hand creeps soft across the stone,

He stays his blade, his heart no longer lone.

“Tomorrow night,” he speaks, his voice less dire,

“You’ll weave again, to feed this strange desire.”

The courtiers gasp, their whispers sharp with awe,

A fleeting hope in what their eyes now saw.

She bows, her heart a flame that will not fade,

And leaves to spin the tales that fate has made.

XVII

So begin the nights, a thousand and one more,

Each tale a tide to crash on sorrow’s shore.

Her sister, Dunyazad, with gentle plea,

Each eve does call, “Another tale for me!”

And Shahrazad, with wisdom’s boundless art,

Weaves threads of light to bind the broken heart.

Through deserts vast, where sands of time dissolve,

Through skies where comets burn and stars evolve.

XVIII

She speaks of lovers whose hearts defy the grave,

Of pilgrims bold who ride the cosmic wave.

Of children lost who hear their mother’s call,

Of poets true who rise where empires fall.

Each tale a thread within a boundless weave,

Each word a hope that mortals may believe.

Of heroines bold who walk the shadowed vale,

And turn despair to triumph without fail.

XIX

Of singers wise who chant with timeless fire,

Their songs ascending where the stars aspire.

The king, once stone, begins to softly thaw,

His heart, once ice, now stirred by what he saw.

Her tales of mercy, woven through with grace,

Carve beams of light upon his shadowed face.

The court, once mute, now hums with quiet song,

As Shahrazad’s words right an ancient wrong.

XX

The jasmine blooms, its fragrance wild and bold,

The bazaars wake, their stories newly told.

The maidens live, no longer bound by dread,

The dawn no more a canvas stained with red.

The skies grow clear, the stars return to sing,

As Shahrazad’s tales give hope a newborn wing.

Through nights uncounted, still she weaves her art,

Each story chipping at the king’s cold heart.

XXI

Of heroines fierce who guard their sacred flame,

Of mothers bold who bear a timeless name.

Of women who defy the grave’s cold claim,

Of daughters lost who find their home again.

Each word a pearl, each tale a radiant light,

To burn the dark and call the day from night.

A thousand nights, a thousand tales and one,

And with each dawn, a brighter age begun.

XXII

Shahrayar, changed, his soul no longer blind,

Sees truth within the stories of her mind.

His heart, once chained by vengeance’s cruel grip,

Is freed by words that fall from Shahrazad’s lip.

“My queen,” he speaks, as sunlight floods the hall,

“Your tales have shattered my unyielding wall.

Your wisdom’s fire has burned my pain away,

No more shall blood defile our land’s new day.”

XXIII

He kneels, his crown a shadow cast aside,

And vows to rule with love where hate has died.

The kingdom wakes, its shadows swept afar,

The rivers sing beneath a brighter star.

The minarets, with gold and azure crowned,

Reflect the light where once was sorrow found.

The people dance, their hearts no longer torn,

In Shahrazad’s tales, their hope is born.

XXIV

Beyond the gods, where mortal dreams take flight,

Her voice resounds through veils of endless night.

The stars themselves now chant her sacred name,

A flame eternal, bound to cosmic fame.

In bazaars and halls, from Ctesiphon to sea,

Her stories live, where truth and hope are free.

The bards now sing of Shahrazad’s great deed,

Her words the seed of life in time of need.

XXV

In every tale, a spark of light endures,

A truth to heal what sorrow’s hand obscures.

From courts of marble to gardens deep and grand,

Her legacy shall evermore expand.

For in the heart of those who dare to dream,

Lies magic born where mortal hopes redeem.

Her name, a star that burns through endless time,

A song of hope in every mortal clime.

XXVI

In every word, a power to transform,

To still the heart and weather any storm.

For stories hold a might no god can claim,

A spark to make the darkest shadows flame.

In Shahrazad’s soul, the cosmos found its voice,

A gift to mortals, born of sacred choice.

Her song, eternal, echoes far and near,

A testament that love can conquer fear.

XXVII

Through dust and time, through grief and fleeting pain,

Her tales ascend, a light that shall remain.

In every whisper, every woven thread,

She lives, where mortal hearts and stars are led.

O Shahrazad, whose voice the heavens sing,

Your stories grant the world its endless spring.

In Ctesiphon, where roses never fade,

Her name is carved in sunlight and in shade.

XXVIII

The zephyr hums, the rivers chant her lore,

The minarets her wisdom’s echo store.

Each tale a bridge from mortal to divine,

Each word a star where mortal hopes align.

Her heart, a lamp that burns through endless night,

Her voice, a tide that drowns despair in light.

From Isfahan to Shiraz, tales unfold,

Of Shahrazad, whose courage never old.

XXIX

Her stories weave a pattern, vast and grand,

A dance of love across the ancient land.

Like Hafez, she with wisdom’s verse does sing,

Her voice a zephyr lifting broken wings.

In every breath, her legacy is sown,

A flame to light the paths where stars have flown.

O Shahrazad, whose tales the heavens weave,

Your words a truth that mortals may believe.

XXX

In every heart that dares to hear your call,

A spark ignites to break the darkest thrall.

Your sacrifice, a thousand nights and one,

Has turned the tide where sorrow’s web was spun.

Eternal now, your name shall ever soar,

A Persian rose to bloom forevermore.

In every tale, a rose that never dies,

A flame that dances in the poet’s eyes.

XXXI

Her words, like rosewater, cleanse the soul’s despair,

Each tale a breath of jasmine in the air.

Of lovers bound by fate’s unyielding thread,

Of heroines bold who walk where angels tread.

In every verse, a truth that never fades,

A rose that blooms where sorrow’s hand invades.

Her name, a chant within the cosmic weave,

A power vast that mortals may believe.

XXXII

Through nights of dust, through days of fleeting pain,

Her stories soar, a light that shall remain.

In Ctesiphon, where minarets aspire,

Her voice ascends, a flame of poet’s fire.

From mortal heart to heaven’s endless dome,

Her tales have carved a path to lead us home.

O Shahrazad, eternal, wise, and free,

Your song is life’s immortal victory.

XXXIII

Her tales, a caravan through deserts vast,

Each word a lamp to light the shadowed past.

Of mothers fierce who guard their sacred flame,

Of daughters lost who find their home’s true name.

In every story, mercy finds its voice,

A light to guide where hearts may yet rejoice.

Her sacrifice, a flame that never wanes,

Burns bright where sorrow’s shadow still remains.

XXXIV

From Kashan’s domes to Yazd’s eternal light,

Her stories echo, banishing the night.

Each word a pearl, each tale a mystic stream,

A bridge to cross the chasm of a dream.

Her voice, a tide that lifts the broken soul,

Her tales, a fire that makes the heavens whole.

O Shahrazad, whose name the stars recite,

Your song a beacon through the endless night.

XXXV

In every heart, a rose that never fades,

Each tale a light where sorrow’s hand degrades.

Her words, like winds that carry jasmine’s breath,

Defy the dark and triumph over death.

Through time’s long veil, her stories pierce the gloom,

A flame to guide the heart from grief’s entomb.

O Shahrazad, whose voice the cosmos sings,

Your tales are life’s eternal, boundless springs.

XXXVI

Her name, a comet trailing endless fire,

Her tales, a chant to lift the soul’s desire.

In every whisper, every woven strand,

She shapes the stars with mortal heart and hand.

Through veils of night, her stories burn and soar,

A light to guide where no despair can roar.

O Shahrazad, whose voice remakes the skies,

Your song a rose that never, ever dies.

XXXVII

In every tale, a world where hearts are free,

A flame that carves a path through destiny.

Her words, like rivers, flood the barren plain,

Her voice, a tide to wash away the pain.

From mortal dust to heavens’ boundless span,

Her stories sing the triumph of the human.

O Shahrazad, eternal, fierce, and wise,

Your tales ignite the stars in mortal eyes.

XXXVIII

Through endless nights, her voice a ceaseless stream,

Each tale a spark to kindle hope’s bright dream.

In Ctesiphon, where lanterns never dim,

Her name is sung in every poet’s hymn.

Her sacrifice, a thousand nights and one,

Has woven light where darkness was begun.

O Shahrazad, whose stories break the dawn,

Your song is life, where death’s grim shade is gone.

XXXIX

Her words, a cosmos spun from mortal breath,

Each tale a star that triumphs over death.

In every heart, a fire that never dies,

A rose that blooms beneath eternal skies.

From Persepolis to Susa’s ancient halls,

Her voice resounds where mortal courage calls.

O Shahrazad, whose tales the heavens bind,

Your song a light to heal the broken mind.

XL

In every verse, a truth that time defies,

A flame that dances in the poet’s eyes.

Her stories weave a world where love endures,

A light to guide where sorrow’s hand obscures.

Through endless ages, Shahrazad’s name soars,

A rose eternal, blooming evermore.

O Shahrazad, whose voice the stars ignite,

Your song is life’s unending, boundless light.

                         XLI

O moon-cloaked witness to a thousand dawns,
Behold her descent—Shahrazad, flame-veiled
And sorrow-draped, a psalm in flesh, a dirge
That walks. No winged seraph bears her tread,
No chariot of fire, but silence shod
In knowledge deep as death. She comes alone,
A bride to the gallows of the Empire’s bed.
Down marble corridors, where eunuchs pale
Avoid her gaze and time forgets to breathe,
She walks as one condemned who blesses fate.
The rose of her lips shuts fast upon speech,
For speech is power, and power watched too close.
In her hand: a book unopened, unread—
A ciphered womb of worlds not yet unsealed.
The veil she wears is not of silk, but thought:
Woven of verses spoken once in dreams,
Knot by knot of ancient tongues erased,
Yet still they burn behind her twilight eyes—
The eyes that see the world and speak it back,
Not as it is, but as it yearns to be.
Her sisters weep. Her father—scribe and judge—
Hides his lament in scrolls. But she walks on.
She walks as the sea walks: with patient doom.
Each step an echo through the caverns of
Dynastic guilt and unrepented blood.
And who awaits her in the perfumed tomb?
A man whose crown is thorns of sleepless rage,
Who cleaves the night to quell his haunted name.
He waits. He thirsts for flesh to seal the sun.
But she is not lamb. She is not star.
She is the labyrinth that snares the hunter.
She is the question no blade can answer.
So enters Shahrazad—her breath a key,
Her silence deeper than decree or law—
Into the chamber draped in crimson veils
Where kings have buried dawns beneath desire.
The oil-lamps tremble. The hour nears.
And somewhere, in the hush between heartbeats,
The first story coils like smoke on her tongue.

XLII

Night folds its velvet over bloodless hours,
And in its hush, the jackals sleep. But not
The king. Not Shahriyar, whose bed is built
Of broken vows and bridal shrouds. He waits—
A lion starved of meaning, bored of flesh,
Eyes ringed in ash, fingers steeped in rot.
She stands before him, neither bowed nor bold,
A silence wrapped in cinnamon and fate.
The air is thick with myrrh and apprehension;
The harem sighs in distant, wilting rhythms.
And yet—she does not tremble. Not a breath.
She studies him as one who reads a wound,
Not to recoil, but to understand its name.
"Speak," he commands, voice brittle with command.
And she, the weaver of the unseen thread,
Lowers her gaze, then lifts it like a veil.
And from her lips—a hush, then flint, then flame.
"Majesty," she begins, "there was a land—
Not unlike thine, yet ruled by other stars—
Where a fisherman cast his net by night,
And caught not fish, but fate..."
And thus the loom begins.
With every word, she casts a spell of time,
Unbraids the tyrant’s darkness with a tale,
And slips the noose a night’s width further off.
Each image painted with the breath of worlds—
Djinn bound in brass, birds that weep like men,
Isles where the dead debate the living’s dreams—
All pour from her in tides that ebb the sword.
The king, astonished, leans toward the flame.
He does not speak. He does not blink.
He drinks the syllables like desert rain.
And when the dawn unthreads the eastern hem,
She pauses—just before the secret turns.
She clasps the story's throat and leaves it there,
Unfinished, trembling on the page of air.
“O King,” she says, “the rest, if life permits,
Tomorrow night, when moonlight knows my name,
Will spread the fate ”
And thus the tale survives, and so does she—
Not by the blade, but by the art of breath.
And in that breath, empires will dissolve.
And in that pause, the world begins again.

XLIII 

“But list, O King, and mark this lesson well,
Which all the annals of the world do tell:
There are more wars than those with outward foe,
When brother’s sword doth brother’s blood bestow;
When doubt, like serpents, coils in every mind,
And trust, once broken, leaves but chains behind.
The realm that fights itself shall ever bleed—
No peace in field, no safety in the seed.
I am not a famous clairvoyante with a wicked pack of cards,
To lay false fate in painted signs upon these marble swards.
I need no trick of prophecy, no phantom’s whispered art—
I read thy future in the past that festers in thine heart.
Look not to mystic symbols dealt by some theatric hand;
The doom of kings is writ alone on reason’s shifting sand.
I see no ghost—I see the wound that bleeds behind thine eyes;
I hear no spirit—but the scream each silenced bride still cries.
Thy future is not shaped by stars, nor cursed by demon’s breath—
’Tis built upon the choice ’twixt love and self-devising death.
Think not this truth belongs to tale alone:
Full many a king on pride’s sharp throne hath known
The taste of ash that follows reckless ire—
The unending burn of his own funeral pyre.
Great Nero, ’fore Rome burned, did Octavia slay,
Then wailed her name amid the cinders’ gray.
And Henry, England’s lord of broken vows,
Who sent sweet Anne to death beneath the boughs,
Saw ghosts thereafter in each courtly glance,
And mourned his haste in love’s lost, bitter dance.
E’en Tsar Ivan, whose heart in iron clad,
Wept for the son his own mad rage struck dead—
Too late, too late doth wisdom hold the hour
When blood hath fed the blind and jealous pow’r.
What prince, by mood, doth let his sceptre turn,
Shall make his palace but a funeral urn;
Who rules by rage, who lets his wrath decree,
Makes war upon his own posterity.
For every edict born of spleen and spite
Doth plant a future battle in the night.

XLIV

 The Admonition

But he who rules with reason’s constant hand,
Doth knit the heartstrings of a bleeding land;
Who measures justice not in blood nor tears,
But in the quiet peace of settled years—
He, not the king who shouts and draws the blade,
Is by the angels and the gods obeyed.
Look on the ruins of great kings before,
Who thought the world but their own trophy floor:
Their names are dust; their dynasties undone,
Ere yet another generation’s sun.
But wisdom—wisdom buildeth in the stone
A throne that time shall never overthrow.
Therefore, my Lord, let not thy heart be swayed
By transient griefs in passion’s heat arrayed.
Rule by the compass of the patient stars,
Not by the lightning of thy private wars.
So shall thy reign—not feared alone, but blest—
In hearts of men forever safely rest.
So shall thy reign—not feared alone, but blest—
In hearts of men forever safely rest.”

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Visions of Francis Bacon

K. H

The Proleptic Vision of Francis Bacon’s Idols: From Early Modern Thought to Contemporary Insight

     When Francis Bacon (1561–1626) introduced his doctrine of the “Idols” in Novum Organum (1620), 

he sought to diagnose the fundamental sources of error that beset human reason. Writing against the 

backdrop of late Renaissance scholasticism and Aristotelian dominance, Bacon identified these obstacles 

not as minor mistakes but as systemic distortions rooted in both human nature and human society. His 

fourfold taxonomy—Idols of the Tribe, Cave, Marketplace, and Theatre—was revolutionary: it cast doubt 

on the assumption that the human intellect could directly apprehend reality without mediation.

From a contemporary perspective, Bacon’s framework appears proleptic; while formulated in the 

language of the seventeenth century, it offers a conceptual scaffold that resonates with, and arguably 

anticipates, the core concerns of modern disciplines, from cognitive psychology and sociology to 

semiotics and critical theory. The connections are not of a direct lineage but are powerful interpretive 

parallels that reveal Bacon’s remarkable foresight.

Idols of the Tribe: Cognitive Limitations of Human Nature

        Bacon’s Idols of the Tribe emerge from what he considered the inherent tendencies of the human 

species. He wrote, “The Idols of the Tribe have their foundation in human nature itself… all perceptions, 

both of the sense and of the mind, bear reference to man, and not to the universe” (Bacon, 1620/1857, 

Aph. 41). In modern terms, this is a prescient acknowledgment that human cognition is never a passive 

mirror of reality. Our perception and thought are constrained by neurobiological structures, heuristics, and 

biases. Contemporary cognitive psychology and neuroscience explore precisely these limits. Gestalt 

psychology, for example, demonstrates that perception is structured by innate patterns of organization, 

while research on cognitive biases (Tversky & Kahneman, 1974) shows systematic deviations from 

rational judgment. This modern research, while distinct in its methodology and scope, echoes Bacon’s 

foundational insight that the human mind itself is a source of error. Where Bacon saw the “tribe” as a 

source of error for scientific inquiry, today we recognize the same phenomena as natural cognitive 

constraints that require critical awareness and methodological checks.

Idols of the Cave: Individual Subjectivity

        The Idols of the Cave arise from the peculiarities of the individual. Bacon (1620/1857) writes, “…

everyone… has a cave or den of his own, which refracts and discolours the light of nature, owing either to 

his own proper and peculiar nature, or to his education and conversation with others…” (Aph. 42). Here, 

Bacon's idea finds a powerful parallel in the sociology of knowledge (Mannheim, 1936), which argues 

that an individual's worldview is fundamentally shaped by their social and historical location. Each 

thinker is shaped by a “cave” of experience—personal temperament, socialization, and prior education—

which refracts objective reality. Where Bacon observed these subjective distortions as obstacles to clear 

reasoning, modern theory, particularly in the work of Mannheim, elaborates them as structural features of 

human understanding: the mind is never neutral, and all cognition is mediated by context and unconscious 

influences shaped by one’s personal and social environment.

Idols of the Marketplace: The Power and Peril of Language

        The Idols of the Marketplace originate in human communication. Bacon (1620/1857) warns that 

words themselves can distort thought, creating illusions when linguistic labels are mistaken for the 

realities they signify, stating, “…the commerce of men with words leads to confusion, and words often 

betray the understanding…” (Aph. 43). In this insight, Bacon anticipates the philosophy of language and 

semiotics. Saussure (1916) formalised the distinction between signifier and signified, while Wittgenstein 

(1953) argued that meaning is a function of language-games and social practice. Derrida (1967) later 

emphasised the instability of signification itself. Bacon’s “marketplace” thus prefigures the recognition 

that discourse is never a neutral conduit for truth but a site where meaning is negotiated, contested, and 

potentially distorted.

Idols of the Theatre: Systems of Thought and Ideological Performance

      Finally, the Idols of the Theatre refer to errors imposed by intellectual systems, philosophical dogmas, 

or traditional authorities. Bacon (1620/1857) described them as “…received systems of philosophy and 

dogmas which resemble stage plays, presenting illusions as truths to be accepted…” (Aph. 44). Here 

Bacon anticipates ideology critique and genealogical philosophy. Marx identified “false consciousness” 

arising from dominant ideological structures, Nietzsche examined the performative aspects of morality 

and metaphysics, and Foucault (1980) analyzed the ways knowledge and power construct regimes of 

truth. In Bacon’s metaphor, entire worldviews are “theatrical,” staging reality in ways that obscure its 

true complexity.

The Legacy and Proleptic Force of the Idols

        Bacon’s Idols were not intended as exhaustive scientific descriptions but as diagnostic tools. Their 

genius lies in their anticipatory force: each “idol” gestures toward a strand of modern inquiry, from 

cognitive science and sociology to linguistics and critical theory. Far from primitive, Bacon’s work can be 

read as a conceptual scaffold; it gestures toward fields that would only mature centuries later.

In effect, Bacon’s vision establishes a critical consciousness that remains necessary today. Modern 

science and philosophy, from behavioural economics to poststructuralism, continue to grapple with the 

very distortions he identified. The Idols remind us that knowledge is not self-evident: it must be 

constructed carefully, critically, and reflectively, always aware of the cognitive, social, linguistic, and 

ideological lenses that shape our understanding

                                                References

Bacon, F. (1857). Novum Organum. In J. Spedding, R. L. Ellis, & D. D. Heath (Eds.), The works of 

Francis Bacon (Vol. 8). Longman. (Original work published 1620)

Derrida, J. (1967). Of grammatology. Johns Hopkins University Press.

Foucault, M. (1980). Power/knowledge: Selected interviews and other writings, 1972-1977. Pantheon              Books.

Freud, S. (1917). Introductory lectures on psycho-analysis. In J. Strachey (Ed. & Trans.), The standard           edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 15). Hogarth Press.

Mannheim, K. (1936). Ideology and utopia: An introduction to the sociology of knowledge. Routledge.

Tversky, A., & Kahneman, D. (1974). Judgment under uncertainty: Heuristics and biases. Science,                     185(4157), 1124–1131. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.185.4157.1124

Wittgenstein, L. (1953). Philosophical investigations. Blackwell.

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March of Lost

 K Hassan

O ye Muse of men, sing to me

of bones that bear the stains of centuries,
of oath-bound hearts crossing dust-choked battlefields.

Time slips, like wuthering wind, through cracked fingers;
yet, unconscious, amid the crowd we march
upon the terrain where bleeding never sates.

Let your immortal melody flow,
like silvered light cutting the darkness,
guiding me through shadowed corridors,
beyond star upon star,

until the endless chambers of night unfurl,
woven from the threads of a shattered cosmos.

In the mythical, cave-like darkness,
we march and whisper in dread: “Bismillah,
Bismillah, Bismillah, Bismillah.”

We stand in the silence after God’s final refrain—
a hymn that trembles, then dissolves into starless void.

Our counsel, like stones cast into a lightless abyss,
yields no echo, only the ash of an unspoken inferno—
a smoldering requiem for heavens long forsaken.

Angelic names, once radiant as supernovae,
fray into nullity, their glow devoured by the hunger of oblivion.
Time staggers, a clockwork deity frozen mid-breath,
its gears grinding to dust beneath a sky—
a vast loom, unturned, its threads tangled in eternity’s pause.

Through these unraveling dreams,
we wander, shadows among shadows,
our voices brewing spells to fracture the silence,
yet never piercing the veil of ideals.

Among us, the wise and weathered—
bearded as ancient oaks,
shaped by storm and shadow—
speak in riddles curling like smoke
around pillars broken by silence.

No prophecy comes, only whispers:
warnings tangled in memory
like nets abandoned to the tide;
hints of carnage yet to come,
names swallowed by sea waves.

We bury our dead beneath a moon that silvers the plains—
not with hymn or harp, but with rough hands and hurried silence.
Their eyes stay open, staring into the infinite abyss,
into the indifferent crown of the night.

Blood on their brows gleams like rubies in the last light,
when a laughter rings out—
neither human nor beast, but older than the earth’s bones,
loud as bronze struck by thunder, echoing beneath our feet.

“Behold!” it cries, and breath is caught in dread.
Like a storm splitting the sea, awe and terror seize the ranks.

“Holy Mother of God,” one whispers, fingers white on his blade.
“Get ready,” croaks another, voice raw with broken prayers.

Again the word—“Behold!”—falls,
a spear through hope and flesh.

So men cling to names like shields against the void—
“Holy Mother of God,”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Jesus Christ.”

Earth yawns beneath us, cracked open by our march.

Yet no chariot wheels flame to life, no steeds of dawn arise—
only the names of the forgotten, etched in ash and bone
at the broken rim of the world’s endless night.

The veiled sky turns her face, silent as fates weaving the unseen—
yet oath-bound, bronze-hearted,
we march, we fight, we halt—
driven by fate’s iron thread,
haunted by voices rising from dust and dream,
echoing, fading—
as all men do,
under the responsive sky—
before a throne not made of gold,
but of breath and silence,
where whispered prayers hang like stars,
and the gaze that watches waits—
neither wrathful nor kind,
but vast as eternity itself —

…bearing witness to the march of men,
whose feet ascend beyond earth’s ruin,
with hearts still beating across.

Dieu oublié par le temps.

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The City Beneath the Sand

K. HASSAN

To Attar

I.

I wandered a waste as vast as God’s own wrath,

Where lightning’s fire forged for me a path—

A path of jagged glass.

No man adorned my lips, no star to guide my track,

Only the sand’s soft hiss and the heavens’ boundless lack.

The dunes stretched endless, a mirror of divine disdain,

Each grain a shard of time, each gust a whispered pain.

My feet bled on the glass, yet left no lasting trace,

My shadow drowned in light, my soul a barren space.

Uncounted years slipped by like ghosts through riven veils,

I drank the sun’s red rust, I breathed the desert’s gales.

My hands, once sworn to oaths, now clutched at empty logus,

Forgotten by kin, by cause, by the gods who lingered there.

A Magus stripped of flame, cast from the sacred pyre,

My robe was woven in grief, my staff a playful snake.

My compass lay in ruins,

No whispers carried to me the herald of spring—

Just silence—

Gnawing light beneath the vulture’s wing.

II.

They spoke of two doors carved for the hearts of men:
The mosque, where law burns bright with heaven’s holy flame,
The tavern, where lost souls drown their shame in sin.
I stood at their thresholds, a wanderer without name.
The mosque’s tall gates repelled me, my breath too wild for creed,
Its minarets cast shadows that mocked my heart’s raw need.
The tavern’s raucous laughter spurned my tears’ frail disguise,
Its drunken saints recoiled from the truth within my eyes.
You are cold, they hissed, your longing’s stained with guile.
Your tears are false, your soul a storm too fierce, too wild.
No path remains but dust, no altar holds your trust—
You are exiled from exile, a ghost ground down to rust.
I lingered in the twilight, on glass that cut my feet,
My heart a broken vessel where no gods deigned to meet.
The stars above were silent, their light a distant scorn,
Yet still I walked the jagged path, where no new dawn was born.

III.

The city—                                                                                                                                                           There is not, O heart, some road beyond these poles?

A hidden gate where thirst alone consoles the soul?
Not the mosque’s stern chant, nor the tavern’s reckless sigh,
But a trail unwalked where jagged glass reflects the sky?
I stepped through formless air, led by hunger’s primal call,
Not faith’s cold hand, nor folly’s, but a pulse that burned through all.
The sands began to tremble, the sun paled to ash and gray,
A whisper rose like mist where the desert’s silence lay:
Beyond the cup’s sweet dregs, beyond the prayer’s thin thread,
A city sleeps in shadow where no mortal feet have tread.
Not shaped by hands of clay, nor bound by mortal name—
Seek it, O wanderer, and rise from the ash of shame.
I followed that faint echo, through dunes that heaved and sighed,
Each step a wound on glassy shards, each breath a truth denied.
The wind became my compass, its wail my only guide,
Its voice a woven requiem along that fractured tide.

IV.

From the horizon’s wound, where light bled into dream,
A dome arose—not gold, not stone, but a radiant seam.
A minaret of memory, carved from the heart’s lost scream,
Its spire a hymn of longing no mortal tongue could deem.
No gate stood guard, no wall defined its sacred bound,
Yet it rose from the earth’s deep ache, where chaos’ roots were found.
Dust fell always, soft as grief, a veil that cloaked the air,
Each grain a fleeting scripture, a sigh of ancient prayer.
I passed through no stone threshold, yet entered truth’s embrace,
The city was my forsaking, the mirror of my face.
Its streets were veins of silence, where dust forever fell,
A shroud of timeless sorrow, a hymn no voice could tell.
Its towers pulsed with bone and flame, yet dust was their attire,
A falling, endless curtain woven from the heart’s desire.
No name could hold its essence, no creed could claim its light,
Yet it sang through wind and ruin, through the marrow of the night.
I walked its boundless alleys, where shadows wove with flame,
Each step a revelation, each breath a buried name.
The city was no citadel, no fortress wrought by men,
But a living wound of wonder, where dust falls without end.

V.

There, figures moved like smoke through dust that ever fell,
Their names a fleeting art, their forms a shadowed spell.
The Laughing Judge, whose verdicts split the heavens’ beating heart,
The Blinded Priest, whose prayers burned through the dust’s soft art,
The Queen of Plume, whose words bore stars through dust’s eternal veil,
Each step a dance with falling grains, each breath a ghostly tale.
Their tongues spoke riddles ancient, too vast for mortal breath,
Their eyes held truths that shimmered where dust and death enmeshed.
The Imam poured wine like rivers, through dust that cloaked the tides,
The Vintner read the Qur’an backward, where dust’s own truth resides.
The Librarian wept softly, her tears lost in falling dust,
O’er jars where meanings shattered, their shards now ground to rust.
We Magi were uncounted, yet each a solitary spark,
Not worshipers of fire, but fire’s own pulse in the dark.
Within us burned an ember, through dust that veiled the soul,
A flame that spoke in silence, where falling grains made whole.
I sat among their shadows, their voices wove my own,
Each word a thread of starlight, each sigh a dust-kissed stone.

VI.

Through arches bent like crescent moons, where dust fell soft as rain,
A damsel stood beneath a fig, her voice a fragile strain.
“Oh Wanderer,” she whispered, her breath a woven flame,
“Have you lost the way to home, or found its hidden name?
Does your heart still roam the wastes where glass paths cut the skies,
Or is it rooted here, where dust and dream entwine?”
Her eyes were moons unshackled, through dust’s eternal fall,
Holding all the years I’d wandered, each wound, each fleeting call.
“Home is not a harbor,” she said, “nor a wall of stone,
But a flame you carry inward, a path you walk alone.”
She pointed to the sand’s soft script, where dust fell etched with fire,
Each grain a tale of longing, each spark a soul’s desire.
“Become the flame you seek,” she urged, her voice a sacred pyre,
“And rise, O Magus, from the ash of all you once desired.”
Her words were mirrors gleaming through dust that veiled the air,
Her breath a living coal that burned where falling dust was prayer.
Igniting in my chest a spark that pierced the endless fall,
A flame to light the city, where dust entombed it all.

VII.

I saw then: mosque and tavern are but masks upon the void,
Mirrors facing mirrors, where truth is oft destroyed.
They offer fleeting shelter, yet neither dares to see
The soul’s unspoken forge, where dust falls endlessly.
This city—this forbidden realm—holds no law, yet knows my pain,
No altar, yet its silence, through falling dust, sustains.
No God stands crowned above it, yet divinity breathes near,
In dust that falls like sacred ash, This is the soul’s frontier.
Not chained by creed’s cold iron, nor torn by doubt’s sharp blade,
It cradles light and shadow where dust’s soft veil is laid.
A temple woven of breath, where dust falls as a psalm,
Where the dead confess their secrets in the falling dust’s calm.
I knelt within its silence, my heart a broken bell,
Its chime a hymn of fracture, where dust in quiet fell.
The city was my mirror, my wound, my endless sea,
Its tides the pulse of longing, cloaked in dust’s eternity.

VIII.

Yet still I walked its labyrinth, where dust fell without cease,
Each step a shedding of the self, each breath a truth’s release.
The dunes within its borders sang, through dust’s unyielding rain,
Of lovers lost to starlight, of words that bore their pain.
The city held no scripture, yet its stones, with dust adorned,
Bore cracks of sacred sorrow, where falling grains were mourned.
I saw my mother’s shadow, her hands dust-veiled and still,
I saw my father’s silence, his eyes of buried will.
The children I had never borne sang softly through the dust,
Their laughter wove the arches where the city’s heart was thrust.
And still the dust kept falling, revealing lives unknown,
Each grain a fleeting story, each gust a spirit sown.
I lingered in their chorus, their voices wove my own,
A tapestry of longing, through dust’s eternal throne.

IX.

The city spoke in visions, through dust that burned too bright,
Of oceans trapped in teardrops, of stars that drowned in night.
It showed me wars unspoken, where dust fell thick with pain,
It showed me peace unyielding, where dust fell soft as rain.
I saw the hands that built the world, then tore it stone by stone,
Their dust now falling ever, where no gods’ names were known.
I saw the hearts that loved too fiercely, then wandered all alone,
Their echoes caught in falling dust, their cries a muted tone.
The city held their relics, their triumphs and their cries,
Its walls a living palimpsest beneath unyielding skies.
I walked until my feet were dust, my blood a desert stream,
Yet still the city called me, its dust my waking dream.
It was no place of endings, no haven built to last,
But a flame through falling dust, a present forged from past.

X.

Now I walked again, the Sahara vast and cruel,
Its dunes a sea of fire beneath a path of glassy rule.
And there, an unbelievable sight, a vision to confound—
A trail of people followed me, their cries a piercing sound.
“Save us, Lord!” they wailed, their voices torn by grief,
Each sob a shard of anguish, each plea a heart’s belief.
Their forms were faint as starlight, yet heavy with despair,
Their faces etched with centuries, their eyes a burning prayer.
They stretched across the desert, a river of lost souls,
Their hands reached out to grasp the spark my wandering heart consoles.
I turned, my soul a furnace, yet chilled by doubt’s sharp sting—
Who was I, a Magus frail, to bear such sacred spring?
No lord was I, no savior crowned, yet their cries would not relent,
Each “Save us, Lord!” a hammer blow, each tear a sacrament.
Their sorrow wove a mantle, of ash and light entwined,
And I, their reluctant beacon, bore the flame they sought to find.
The city pulsed within me, its dust their guiding star,
Its silence louder than their cries, its fire their hope afar.

XI.

Yet still I walked, now carrying their pleas within my breast,
The city’s ember glowing, where dust had found its rest.
No mosque’s call could bind me, no tavern’s cup could drown,
For I had seen the face that burns where all veils tumble down.
The desert’s wail still haunted, its voice a lover’s plea,
Yet I no longer bent to it—I was the fire set free.
My prayer was not in words, but in the hush where dust descends,
Where light and shadow mingle, where time’s own arc unbends.
If asked, “What faith is yours?” I’d answer with a sign:
The fire, the dust, the wandering spark, the endless wandering divine.
The city waited, veiled beneath the sand’s eternal fall,
For those too wild to linger, too frail to heed the call.
Not mosque, not tavern, not creed’s cold throne, nor dome’s unyielding span—
But silence that whispered softly: You are already home.

XII.

I walk, and still the desert stretches vast before my gaze,
Its dunes a map of longing, where glass paths carve the days.
Each step a prayer unspoken, each breath a sacred vow,
To carry forth the city’s light, where dust is burning now.
The stars may fade to silence, above a path of glassy lore,
Yet still the city’s embers, through falling dust, endure.
For I am both the wanderer and the path that I must tread,
The flame that lights the darkness, the dust where dreams are fed.
And if the world should ask me, “What truth have you to share?”
I’ll point to the horizon, where dust is breath and air.
For there, beneath the sand’s soft weight, where dust falls evermore,
The soul finds home in wandering, and names it as its shore.

SAHARA , 1997 

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A Hymn to the Unvanquished

K.  Hassan

I

In earth’s deep wounds, where mortal hearts entwine,
Love’s fervent pulse doth defy the cosmic line.
A glyph of fire, by trembling hands engrav’d,
Doth blaze where human spirits stand unslav’d.
No fleeting spark, nor breath in darkness torn,
But souls in love’s embrace, forever sworn.
From memory’s roots, a bard ascends to sing,
His song of love, a flame with boundless wing.

II

No single voice his ardent throat doth bear,
But lovers’ cries, with grief and passion fair.
A chorus woven from love’s eternal thread,
Their mortal hearts a fire the heavens dread.
Each note a vow to pierce the tyrant’s veil,
Where love’s fierce light doth make the strong heart quail.
From scatter’d lives, their anthem storms the sky,
A torch of love to light where shadows lie.

III

Empires, in pomp, their cruel deceptions weave,
Yet love’s bright truth on mortal hearts they leave.
Their laws, in cold hypocrisy array’d,
Cannot bind hands by love’s sweet fire stay’d.
They wave their scrolls, with hollow might divine,
But love’s true quill rewrites the human line.
The bard’s sweet strain their treachery doth tear,
With love’s own might, where mortal hearts repair.

IV

In trembling earth, love’s pulse doth ever beat,
The throb of hearts that death cannot defeat.
His voice, a lute of passion and of fire,
Doth sing of love that tyrants can’t retire.
His song reweaves the soul with ardent thought,
By love’s fierce will, in mortal passion wrought.
’Gainst death’s cold hand and pow’r’s unyielding rod,
He sings of love that lifts us unto God.

V

No fleeting air, but love that dares to blaze,
Through war’s grim shade, where death’s cold shadow sways.
Two hearts, entwin’d in time’s relentless dance,
Clasp hands in love, defying fate’s expanse.
Their kiss, a spark that sets the soul afire,
A mortal love that burns through all desire.
Through them, a wound, a homeland’s beating core,
A love that holds though death’s dark tempests roar.

VI

In fields of strife, where mortal blood was shed,
A thorn bush blooms, by lovers’ tears still fed.
Its leaves a dirge for hearts by sorrow torn,
A scroll of love where human grief is born.
Its thorns, the scars of those who lov’d and died,
Hold tales no storm nor flame can e’er deride.
In silent bloom, it chants of love’s dear cost,
A hymn for those by death and love engross’d.

VII

Love here is no mere whisper of the soul,
But a rebel’s vow that makes the spirit whole.
A cry to shatter chains of cold decree,
A flame of love where mortal hopes run free.
Each kiss a creed, each gaze a sacred writ,
To free the hearts that death would else submit.
Their union lives in every lover’s hand,
A radiant beam across a mournful land.

VIII

He sang not words, but love in mortal guise,
His song a war ’gainst stars that tyrannize.
In cells of stone, where hope grows thin and frail,
He wove his art where lovers’ spirits wail.
His notes were born where lovers’ tears did fall,
Where love’s deep grief in iron chains did call.
He did not sing—he became their cry,
A flame of love to pierce the vaulted sky.

IX

They sought to still the tongues that sang of love,
To crush the hearts that soar’d to heav’ns above.
But from their lips, forbidden yet alive,
He fram’d a song where mortal love doth thrive.
Each note a root, each breath a spark of flame,
A language etch’d in every lover’s name.
From muted throats, a tree of love did rise,
Its fruit the hope that mortal heart supplies.

X

In maps of pow’r, cold chains of rule extend,
Yet love’s bright truth no mortal heart can bend.
Their words of peace cloak bonds that lovers bear,
But human hearts outshine their stern despair.
In every glance, in every lover’s truth,
Love’s spark renews the fire of boundless youth.
From shatter’d dreams and lives that still endure,
A song of love ascends, unbow’d, and pure.

XI

By Judi’s slopes, where rivers bear the scar,
Of lovers’ bones and dreams that linger far,
Two graves do sing with love the world forgot,
A lullaby for truths that death cannot.
The thorn bush there, from lovers’ anguish grown,
Holds in its thorns the strength of flesh and bone.
It stands for love, for those who strive and fall,
A root of hope to keep their hearts in thrall.

XII

Each thorn a mark of love the law hath scorn’d,
Each petal soft with tears by lovers mourn’d.
This flora chants in voices love suppress’d,
By hands that bury dreams of the oppress’d.
Yet still it breathes, through tales of love’s sweet pain,
A truth no pow’r can ever hope to chain.
In every root, a prayer for those who roam,
In every stem, love’s claim to call it home.

XIII

This land is no mere line on tyrant’s scroll,
But a stage of love where mortal spirits roll.
Its earth a song, its rivers flowing verse,
A cry of love to break the despot’s curse.
Not just a place, but a tale in blood and bone,
Through every heart that dares to call it home.
Each ruin speaks, each silence holds a plea,
A grammar born of love’s eternity.

XIV

He was no shade, but a flame of human mold,
A storm of love, unyielding, fierce, and bold.
His song a spark, unbound by death or dread,
A voice that wakes the living and the dead.
His notes a tide where lovers’ rivers join,
His silence strong where broken hearts anoint.
Each pause a cry, each strain a living key,
To free the soul through love’s infinity.

XV

Yet treachery came, a shadow clad in trust,
A disciple’s hand did turn his song to dust.
His heart, once true, by envy’s venom sway’d,
Betray’d the bard whose love had never fray’d.
The bard did fall, his throat by falsehood stilled,
Yet love’s own fire no traitor’s hand could kill.
The wound becomes the page where truth is writ,
And every heart keeps burning, bit by bit.

XVI

In every child’s fierce and tender gaze,
The bard’s bright love no treachery can erase.
In scatter’d tongues, in dreams that wander wide,
In lovers’ steps where guiding stars abide,
He lives through love that breaks the chains of time,
In every soul that dares the upward climb.
No border holds the breath of human fire,
No traitor’s deed can still love’s fierce desire.

XVII

What is a homeland but a lover’s cry,
A tale of loss beneath a weeping sky?
What is a people but a flame of love,
A song of grief that soars to heav’ns above?
What is a song but a heart’s own sacred chart,
A spark of truth in history’s wounded heart?
He sang these truths with hands that shook and bled,
And planted love where mortal dreams are fed.

XVIII

No god could frame the song his heart hath spun,
Born in the fire where mortal love is won.
It breaks the bounds of heavens cold and still,
A cry of love no doctrine can fulfill.
A sacred spark in lovers’ hands held high,
A flame of truth to light the darken’d sky.
His song, a blaze that cuts through endless night,
Burns through the chains with unrelenting light.

XIX

Now every vale, each lover’s hand and heart,
Sings in the tongue where broken bridges start.
His notes become the breath of those who strive,
A storm of love to keep the world alive.
The people rise, one heart, one boundless soul,
Beneath a sky where lovers’ dreams are whole.
Though traitor’s hand did strike the bard’s last breath,
In human love, he triumphs over death.

Now every vale, each lover’s hand and heart, Sings in the tongue where broken bridges start. His notes become the breath of those who strive, A storm of love to keep the world alive. The people rise, one heart, one boundless soul, Beneath a sky where lovers’ dreams are whole. Though traitor’s hand did strike the bard’s last breath, In human love, he triumphs over death.

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The Eternal Mind

K Hassan

Not: The poem is under revision.

I

Beneath the brown fog of a primal dawn,
Where shadows choke the spark of thought’s first scream,

Three shades, unlike Magi, seek truth through dust,
The querent’s thorn, the seer’s flame, the scroll.

So many minds, truth’s requiem crushed so many,
A cracked bell keens through nescience’s bleak null.

Elenchus, eidos shred the Real through ash,
Logos, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

Doubt, vision, order writhe in Möbius scars,
The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

II

In dust where creeds dissolve to syllabled null,
A querent’s thorn does rend the mind’s dry veil.

The doxa bleeds, its light spills anti-time,
No dogma binds the blade of fathoming doubt.

Unthinking husks drift lost in thought’s black gyre,
Elenchus sparks the root of nescience bare.

A sibyl’s dirge resounds through shattered voids,
Each query falls, a star in reason’s chasm.

The speculum of wisdom, cracked, reflects unform,
Aporia’s maze gapes wide in thought’s grim pulse.

The civic wrath binds flesh, yet nous takes wing,
Her thorn awakes the Real through ash of mind.

III

In caves of ash where shadows haunt the soul,
A seer peers through chains of mortal clay.

Phantasms weave, men kneel to formless null,
The Eidos burns, a grail in spaceless gyre.

An Icarus unburned ascends through fog,
Her requiem of forms does split the void.

The polis hums with justice wrought in thought,
Yet blind men clutch the dust, their minds unmade.

Archetypes, shards titanic, brave the gale,
Truth, beauty, justice—fractured, yet they burn.

The Absolute, an elegy through nullity,
In flame it gleams, defying reason’s dark.

IV

Where gods dissolve to dust of ancient shrines,
A scribe inscribes her scroll on cracked dry earth.

From star to seed, from telos unto bone,
The Prime Mover’s pulse stirs the silent null.

Syllogisms carve the chaos into form,
Logos erects a maze of ordered ash.

The golden mean, a chord o’er chasms vast,
Her axioms scar the stars in now’s cracked glass.

The cosmos mourns, its requiem scratched on hide,
The Real coheres, spun out from ash and void.

The scribe’s sure hand, through fog, does chart the truth,
A mythic axis carved in thought’s unform.

V

In starless gloom where time’s ash cloaks the void,
A thorn, a flame, a scroll clash in the dust.

The querent’s doubt, the seer’s grail, the scribe’s law,
Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Doubt pricks the psyche, eidos lights the grail,
Logos binds dust to stars in silent might.

Aporia cracks the creeds, archetypes rise,
Syllogisms chart the void where thought lies bare.

The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null,
Its requiem spills through cracks of mortal stone.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,
No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

VI

I colide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimention,
My veins pulse nullity’s unworded shriek.

This tragical destiny keens through shattered voids,
Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The querent, seer, scribe shape shards of Real,
Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

So many minds, truth’s elegy rends the void,
Their spark unmakes the stars in anti-time.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil,
Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

---

II. Under the Syzygy’s Ash

I

Beneath the brown fog where starless dusk holds sway,
The silted stars choke rivers of decay.

A weaver’s chord, a mystic’s star, a spear,
Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

So many minds, light’s requiem crushed so many,
A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Logos and monad shred the Real through dust,
Ratio, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

Theophany and clarity writhe in scars,
The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

II

From vellum’s dust where sacred words decay,
A weaver chants, her logos spans the void.

The scripture cracks, archetypes spill through fog,
Hermeneutics unlock the veiled true light.

A sibyl’s dirge resounds through shattered voids,
Her voice does wrestle faith with nous in ash.

Logos, a torch, binds flesh to starry heights,
Its requiem keens low in reason’s throat.

So many minds, creed’s elegy crushed so many,
The cosmos breathes through spans of mythic chord.

The weaver’s hand, through fog, does stitch the light,
A hymn that echoes where thought’s stones unform.

III

In dusk’s dry veil where starlight chokes on ash,
A mystic climbs, her soul sheds flesh’s husk.

The Monad, starless flame, burns boundless void,
Its Nous and Psyche spill from wounds unseen.

No shade can bind, she scales the noetic cliff,
Her requiem, unburned, does split the fog.

The One, both source and end, bleeds light through dust,
The psyche drinks the Ineffable in peace.

So many minds, void’s elegy crushed so many,
The Absolute chants hymns through reason’s throat.

In starlight’s glow, the Real defies the dark,
The mystic’s voice burns bright through thought’s unform.

IV

In ash of stars, a savant wields her spear,
Its geometric scar does cut the void.

Her axioms slash chaos, ratio guards,
She sings of order, not of gods, in dust.

The polygons to spheres, eidos meets form,
While dogma’s tide would choke her shining blade.

Her nous, a star, burns fury’s flesh to ash,
Her truth, a guide through wastes where minds unform.

So many minds, light’s requiem crushed so many,
The cosmos sharpens, edged by mythic dust.

The savant’s hand, through fog, does map the Real,
A clarity that carves through thought’s decay.

V

Through darkened rifts where time’s dust dims the light,
A chord, a star, a spear clash in the dust.

The weaver’s hymn, the mystic’s flame, the savant’s law,
Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Logos knots spirit, monad lights the One,
Ratio carves stars from thought’s unyielding bed.

Synthesis spans the void, ascent burns dark,
The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky,
Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,
No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

VI

I colide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimention,
My bones chant anti-time’s unworded wail.

This tragical destiny wails through starless rifts,
Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The weaver, mystic, savant shape the Real,
Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

So many minds, light’s elegy splits the void,
Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil,
Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

---

III. In the Theogony’s Dust

I

Beneath the brown fog of a faith-torn dawn,
Where creeds dissolve to ash in thought’s decay,

A sage’s ember, friar’s hymn, rabbi’s torch,
Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

So many minds, creed’s requiem crushed so many,
A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Quiddity, canon shred the Real through ash,
Exegesis, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

The being, quest writhe in Möbius scars,
The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

II

In starless voids where shadows pool as ash,
A sage does kindle embers of pure being.

Quiddity splits from chaos in thought’s dust,
The Necessary grounds all kinesis still.

Metaphysics maps the boundless, mends the clay,
Her stylus sparks the nous through ruined stone.

The creeds may scorn, yet thought drifts free as air,
Being’s cracked speculum holds the One’s faint null.

So many minds, light’s requiem crushed so many,
The cosmos breathes through ontos’ mythic spark.

The sage’s hand, through fog, does kindle truth,
A light that shines where thought’s dry bones unform.

III

In faith’s cracked halls where columns lean in dust,
A friar chants, her summa carved in bone.

The creed weds ratio, Prime Mover proved,
Theonomic law binds grace to logic’s chord.

Her voice keens low through ruins to the sky,
Yet foes spurn roots, her truth a burning torch.

The common good, a rope o’er chasms deep,
Its requiem guides through thought’s unyielding fog.

So many minds, order’s elegy crushed so many,
The cosmos sings through chords of grace in ash.

The friar’s voice, through fog, does stitch the light,
A hymn that echoes where thought’s stones unform.

IV

In radiant exile, dust chokes fading stars,
A rabbi’s torch does burn through thought’s decay.

The formless One, through nous, reigns free of shape,
Allegory’s key unlocks the veiled true light.

Her light does guide through doubt’s unyielding maze,
Though zealots burn her words, her flame holds fast.

The negative way unveils the silent divine,
So many minds, truth’s requiem crushed so many.

The cosmos clears through ash by torch’s glow,
The rabbi’s hand carves Real through thought’s unform.

V

Through shattered voids where time’s ash cloaks the light,
An ember, hymn, and torch clash in the dust.

The sage’s spark, the friar’s chant, rabbi’s flame,
Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Quiddity grounds the chaos, canon binds,
Exegesis carves stars from thought’s dry bed.

Metaphysics spans the void, theonomy hums,
The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky,
Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,
No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

VI

I colide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimention,
My blood shrieks anti-form’s unworded keening.

This tragical destiny keens through shattered voids,
Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The sage, the friar, rabbi shape the Real,
Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

So many minds, creed’s elegy rends the void,
Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil,
Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

---

IV. In the Modern Waste

I

Beneath the brown fog of a godless dawn,
Where idols crumble into thought’s dry ash,

A skeptic’s spark, a critic’s lens, a cry,
Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

So many minds, doubt’s requiem crushed so many,
A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Cogito, critique shred the Real through ash,
The will, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

Certitude, potency writhe in Möbius scars,
The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

II

In silent chambers, shadows pool as dust,
A skeptic wakes, her spark burns through the fog.

“Cogito, ergo sum,” her truth holds fast,
Though senses falter, gods deceive the mind.

Her meditations build a cosmos new,
The nous’ cracked speculum holds the self’s faint null.

The critics scorn, yet spark endures through ash,
So many minds, truth’s requiem crushed so many.

The cosmos wakes by spark’s clear fathoming light,
The skeptic’s hand does kindle Real through time.

III

In tranquil voids where time chokes on its dust,
A critic stands, her lens does bend the Real.

The spatium, tempus shape the psyche’s frame,
Deontic law bids freedom through the fog.

“Act for all,” her torch does light the maze,
Her paradigm turns shadow into light.

The foes may scorn, yet lens holds fast as star,
So many minds, order’s elegy crushed so many.

The cosmos bends through ash by lens’ clear glow,
The critic’s voice does stitch the light through time.

IV

From jagged peaks where dead gods lie in ash,
A prophet’s cry does shatter creeds apart.

The Übermensch carves void with surging will,
No truth is fixed, all values forged in dust.

Her voice, a flame, dances on chaos’ rim,
While foes clutch dogma, yet her cry holds fast.

So many minds, will’s requiem crushed so many,
The cosmos quakes through ash by fathoming spark.

The prophet’s hand, through fog, does carve the Real,
A mythic light that burns through thought’s unform.

V

In barren wastes where time’s dust shrouds the light,
A spark, a lens, a cry clash in the dust.

The skeptic’s doubt, the critic’s law, prophet’s will,
Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Cogito lights the psyche, shapes the void,
The will carves stars from thought’s unyielding bed.

The doubt spans dark, the reason hums through dust,
The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky,
Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,
No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

VI

I colide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimention,
My flesh wails anti-form’s unworded shriek.

This tragical destiny wails through barren wastes,
Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The skeptic, critic, prophet shape the Real,
Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

So many minds, doubt’s elegy splits the void,
Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil,
Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

---

V. Incandescence of the Real

I

Beneath the brown fog of a primal wound,
Where void does kiss the ash of thought’s decay,

A bard’s lost verse, a seer’s dirge, a hymn,
Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

So many minds, creation’s requiem crushed so many,
A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Poiesis, lament shred the Real through ash,
The paradox, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

Creation, order writhe in Möbius scars,
The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

II

From chaos’ maw where stars choke on their ash,
A bard does sing, her seric verse aflame.

Her stanzas weave the nebulae for dust,
Yet chains bind light in markets’ broken stone.

The specie strangles divine sparks in fog,
Theft’s requiem keens through the reason’s throat.

No cage can hold the spark of poiesis’ flame,
So many minds, verse’s elegy crushed so many.

The cosmos wakes by bard’s clear fathoming spark,
Her hand does kindle Real through thought’s unform.

III

In night’s black jaw where ruins whisper low,
A seer’s dirge does tear the veil of ash.

Archetypes crumble, truth scars stone in dust,
Too late it grieves to save the reason’s fall.

From fanes to cinders, cries pierce silent fog,
The Idea, shard in twilight, gleams through null.

So many minds, lament’s requiem crushed so many,
The Absolute sings light through reason’s throat.

The seer’s voice, through fog, does carve the Real,
A mythic spark that burns where ruins unform.

IV

A merchant dances to aurum’s silent chant,
Her greed feeds nations blind in thought’s decay.

Coins sprout in fields through fog of chaos’ wound,
The paradox births order from the dust.

From emporia to neon’s pulsing glow,
A spectral hand weaves towers through the ash.

So many minds, greed’s requiem crushed so many,
The cosmos binds through chords of paradox.

The merchant’s hand, through fog, does weave the Real,
A mythic light that shines through thought’s unform.

V

Through spectral voids where time’s dust dims the light,
A verse, a dirge, a hymn clash in the dust.

The bard’s creation, seer’s lament, merchant’s law,
Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Poiesis kindles fire, lament carves lore,
The paradox weaves stars from thought’s dry bed.

Creation spans the void, order hums through dust,
The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky,
Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,
No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

VI

I colide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimention,
My soul shrieks anti-time’s unworded keening.

This tragical destiny keens through spectral voids,
Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The bard, the seer, profiteer shape the Real,
Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

So many minds, creation’s elegy rends the void,
Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil,
Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

---

VI. In the Century’s Waste

I

Beneath the brown fog of a war-torn dawn,
Where skies choke ash in thought’s unyielding dust,

A linguist’s blade, ontologist’s call, a torch,
Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

So many minds, strife’s requiem crushed so many,
A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Semiotics, ontos shred the Real through dust,
The ratio, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

The sign, the being writhe in Möbius scars,
The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

II

From shadowed streets where words choke on their ash,
A linguist cuts, her blade scales logic’s cliff.

Facts bind the cosmos, signs betray the truth,
The praxis births new meaning in the fog.

Words dance in strife, a dirge through reason’s throat,
The nous and speech align in thought’s decay.

So many minds, sign’s requiem crushed so many,
The cosmos speaks through clarity in ash.

The linguist’s hand, through fog, does carve the Real,
A mythic light that shines where ruins unform.

III

In sylvan dusk where shadows pool as ash,
Ontologist’s call wakes being from the void.

Dasein asks why, a wound through thought’s unform,
The Nothing haunts, yet Being shines through dust.

Authenticity defies the dark’s cold grasp,
Her requiem names nameless truth in time.

So many minds, being’s elegy crushed so many,
The cosmos trembles, light of ontos glows.

The voice, through fog, does kindle Real’s faint spark,
A mythic truth that burns where ruins unform.

IV

A rationalist strides through ash with torch alight,
Her numbers carve the stone of reason’s truth.

Doubt cuts through dogma, ratio meets the need,
Her clarion breaks the dark in thought’s decay.

The creed’s chains snap, a star burns through the silt,
So many minds, truth’s requiem crushed so many.

The cosmos clears through ash by torch’s bright glow,
The rationalist’s hand carves Real through fog.

V

In shadowed wastes where time’s ash cloaks the light,
A blade, a call, a torch clash in the dust.

The linguist’s sign, the thinker’s quest, torch’s law,
Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Semiotics shape the meaning, call wakes being,
Ratio carves stars from thought’s unyielding bed.

The signs span dark, the reason hums through dust,
The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky,
Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,
No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

VI

I colide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimention,
My breath wails anti-form’s unworded shriek.

This tragical destiny wails through shadowed wastes,
Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The linguist, thinker, rationalist shape the Real,
Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

So many minds, sign’s elegy splits the void,
Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil,
Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

---

VII. Eternal Dialectic

I

Beneath the brown fog of time’s cracked mirror,
Where nous does pierce the veil of thought’s decay,

A querent’s thorn, a critic’s lens, a blade,
Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

So many minds, truth’s requiem crushed so many,
A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Elenchus, critique shred the Real through ash,
Semiotics, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

The query, sign writhe in Möbius scars,
The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

II

From timeless dust where stones whisper their ruin,
A querent probes, her thorn tears doxa’s veil.

No creed can hold, elenchus cuts the root,
The speculum of wisdom cracks in null.

A sibyl’s dirge resounds through reason’s throat,
So many minds, truth’s requiem crushed so many.

The cosmos wakes by thorn’s clear fathoming spark,
The querent’s hand does kindle Real through time.

III

In tranquil voids where time chokes on its dust,
A critic stands, her lens does bend the Real.

The spatium, tempus shape the psyche’s frame,
“Act for all,” her torch lights reason’s maze.

Her paradigm turns shadow into light,
So many minds, order’s elegy crushed so many.

The cosmos bends through ash by lens’ clear glow,
The critic’s voice does stitch the light through time.

IV

From shadowed streets where words choke on their ash,
A linguist cuts, her blade scales logic’s cliff.

Signs betray truth, yet praxis shapes the Real,
Words dance in strife through reason’s unyielding throat.

So many minds, sign’s requiem crushed so many,
The cosmos speaks through clarity in ash.

The linguist’s hand, through fog, does carve the Real,
A mythic light that shines where ruins unform.

V

Through spectral rifts where time’s dust dims the light,
A thorn, a lens, a blade clash in the dust.

The querent’s doubt, the critic’s law, linguist’s sign,
Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Doubt pricks the psyche, critique shapes the void,
Semiotics carve stars from thought’s dry bed.

The signs span dark, the reason hums through dust,
The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky,
Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,
No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

VI

We are but tiny meaniing particles,
Yet hold the whole of being and nonbeing.

I colide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimention,
My heart shrieks anti-time’s unworded keening.

The querent, critic, linguist shape the Real,
Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

So many minds, truth’s elegy unmakes void,
Their spark unforms the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil,
Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

The first revision 

Beneath the Noetic Fog

Beneath the brown fog of a primal dawn,

Where shadows choke the spark of thought’s first scream,

Three shades, unlike Magi, seek truth through dust:

The querent’s thorn, the seer’s flame, the scroll.

Too many minds, truth’s requiem crushed,

A cracked bell keens through nescience’s bleak null.

Elenchus and eidos shred the Real through ash,

Logos, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

Doubt, vision, order writhe in Möbius scars,

The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

In dust where creeds dissolve to syllabled null,

A querent’s thorn does rend the mind’s dry veil.

The doxa bleeds, its light spills anti-time;

No dogma binds the blade of fathoming doubt.

Unthinking husks drift lost in thought’s black gyre,

Elenchus sparks the root of nescience bare.

A sibyl’s dirge resounds through shattered voids,

Each query falls, a star in reason’s chasm.

The speculum of wisdom, cracked, reflects unform,

Aporia’s maze gapes wide in thought’s grim pulse.

Civic wrath binds flesh, yet nous takes wing;

Her thorn awakes the Real through ash of mind.

In caves of ash where shadows haunt the soul,

A seer peers through chains of mortal clay.

Phantasms weave, men kneel to formless null;

The Eidos burns, a grail in spaceless gyre.

An Icarus unburned ascends through fog,

Her requiem of forms does split the void.

The polis hums with justice wrought in thought,

Yet blind men clutch the dust, their minds unmade.

Archetypes, shards titanic, brave the gale—

Truth, beauty, justice—fractured, yet they burn.

The Absolute, an elegy through nullity,

In flame it gleams, defying reason’s dark.

Where gods dissolve to dust of ancient shrines,

A scribe inscribes her scroll on cracked dry earth.

From star to seed, from telos unto bone,

The Prime Mover’s pulse stirs the silent null.

Syllogisms carve the chaos into form;

Logos erects a maze of ordered ash.

The golden mean, a chord o’er chasms vast,

Her axioms scar the stars in now’s cracked glass.

The cosmos mourns, its requiem scratched on hide;

The Real coheres, spun out from ash and void.

The scribe’s sure hand, through fog, does chart the truth,

A mythic axis carved in thought’s unform.

In starless gloom where time’s ash cloaks the void,

A thorn, a flame, a scroll clash in the dust.

The querent’s doubt, the seer’s grail, the scribe’s law;

Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Doubt pricks the psyche, eidos lights the grail,

Logos binds dust to stars in silent might.

Aporia cracks the creeds, archetypes rise;

Syllogisms chart the void where thought lies bare.

The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null;

Its requiem spills through cracks of mortal stone.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,

No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

I collide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimension;

My veins pulse nullity’s unworded shriek.

This tragical destiny keens through shattered voids,

Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The querent, seer, scribe shape shards of Real;

Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

Minds, countless, truth’s elegy rends the void;

Their spark unmakes the stars in anti-time.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil;

Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

II. Under the Syzygy’s Ash

Beneath the brown fog where starless dusk holds sway,

The silted stars choke rivers of decay.

A weaver’s chord, a mystic’s star, a spear,

Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

Too many minds, light’s requiem crushed,

A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Logos and monad shred the Real through dust;

Ratio, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

Theophany and clarity writhe in scars;

The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

From vellum’s dust where sacred words decay,

A weaver chants, her logos spans the void.

The scripture cracks, archetypes spill through fog;

Hermeneutics unlock the veiled true light.

A sibyl’s dirge resounds through shattered voids;

Her voice does wrestle faith with nous in ash.

Logos, a torch, binds flesh to starry heights;

Its requiem keens low in reason’s throat.

Minds, countless, creed’s elegy crushed,

The cosmos breathes through spans of mythic chord.

The weaver’s hand, through fog, does stitch the light,

A hymn that echoes where thought’s stones unform.

In dusk’s dry veil where starlight chokes on ash,

A mystic climbs, her soul sheds flesh’s husk.

The Monad, starless flame, burns boundless void;

Its Nous and Psyche spill from wounds unseen.

No shade can bind, she scales the noetic cliX;

Her requiem, unburned, does split the fog.

The One, both source and end, bleeds light through dust;

The psyche drinks the IneXable in peace.

Minds, countless, void’s elegy crushed,

The Absolute chants hymns through reason’s throat.

In starlight’s glow, the Real defies the dark;

The mystic’s voice burns bright through thought’s unform. 

In ash of stars, a savant wields her spear;

Its geometric scar does cut the void.

Her axioms slash chaos, ratio guards;

She sings of order, not of gods, in dust.

The polygons to spheres, eidos meets form,

While dogma’s tide would choke her shining blade.

Her nous, a star, burns fury’s flesh to ash;

Her truth, a guide through wastes where minds unform.

Minds, countless, light’s requiem crushed,

The cosmos sharpens, edged by mythic dust.

The savant’s hand, through fog, does map the Real,

A clarity that carves through thought’s decay.

Through darkened rifts where time’s dust dims the light,

A chord, a star, a spear clash in the dust.

The weaver’s hymn, the mystic’s flame, the savant’s law;

Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Logos knots spirit, monad lights the One,

Ratio carves stars from thought’s unyielding bed.

Synthesis spans the void, ascent burns dark;

The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky;

Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,

No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

I collide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimension;

My bones chant anti-time’s unworded wail.

This tragical destiny wails through starless rifts,

Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The weaver, mystic, savant shape the Real;

Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

Minds, countless, light’s elegy splits the void;

Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil;

Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

III. In the Theogony’s Dust

Beneath the brown fog of a faith-torn dawn,

Where creeds dissolve to ash in thought’s decay,

A sage’s ember, friar’s hymn, rabbi’s torch,

Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

Too many minds, creed’s requiem crushed,

A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Quiddity and canon shred the Real through ash;

Exegesis, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

The being, quest writhe in Möbius scars;

The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

In starless voids where shadows pool as ash,

A sage does kindle embers of pure being.

Quiddity splits from chaos in thought’s dust;

The Necessary grounds all kinesis still.

Metaphysics maps the boundless, mends the clay;

Her stylus sparks the nous through ruined stone.

The creeds may scorn, yet thought drifts free as air;

Being’s cracked speculum holds the One’s faint null.

Minds, countless, light’s requiem crushed,

The cosmos breathes through ontos’ mythic spark.

The sage’s hand, through fog, does kindle truth,

A light that shines where thought’s dry bones unform.

In faith’s cracked halls where columns lean in dust,

A friar chants, her summa carved in bone.

The creed weds ratio, Prime Mover proved;

Theonomic law binds grace to logic’s chord.

Her voice keens low through ruins to the sky,

Yet foes spurn roots, her truth a burning torch.

The common good, a rope o’er chasms deep;

Its requiem guides through thought’s unyielding fog.

Minds, countless, order’s elegy crushed,

The cosmos sings through chords of grace in ash.

The friar’s voice, through fog, does stitch the light,

A hymn that echoes where thought’s stones unform.

In radiant exile, dust chokes fading stars,

A rabbi’s torch does burn through thought’s decay.

The formless One, through nous, reigns free of shape;

Allegory’s key unlocks the veiled true light.

Her light does guide through doubt’s unyielding maze,

Though zealots burn her words, her flame holds fast.

The negative way unveils the silent divine;

Minds, countless, truth’s requiem crushed.

The cosmos clears through ash by torch’s glow;

The rabbi’s hand carves Real through thought’s unform.

Through shattered voids where time’s ash cloaks the light,

An ember, hymn, and torch clash in the dust.

The sage’s spark, the friar’s chant, rabbi’s flame;

Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Quiddity grounds the chaos, canon binds,

Exegesis carves stars from thought’s dry bed.

Metaphysics spans the void, theonomy hums;

The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky;

Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,

No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

I collide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimension;

My blood shrieks anti-form’s unworded keening.

This tragical destiny keens through shattered voids,

Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The sage, the friar, rabbi shape the Real;

Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

Minds, countless, creed’s elegy rends the void;

Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil;

Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

IV. In the Modern WasteBeneath the brown fog of a godless dawn,

Where idols crumble into thought’s dry ash,

A skeptic’s spark, a critic’s lens, a cry,

Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

Too many minds, doubt’s requiem crushed,

A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Cogito and critique shred the Real through ash;

The will, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

Certitude, potency writhe in Möbius scars;

The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

In silent chambers, shadows pool as dust,

A skeptic wakes, her spark burns through the fog.

“Cogito, ergo sum,” her truth holds fast,

Though senses falter, gods deceive the mind.

Her meditations build a cosmos new;

The nous’ cracked speculum holds the self’s faint null.

The critics scorn, yet spark endures through ash;

Minds, countless, truth’s requiem crushed.

The cosmos wakes by spark’s clear fathoming light;

The skeptic’s hand does kindle Real through time.

In tranquil voids where time chokes on its dust,

A critic stands, her lens does bend the Real.

The spatium, tempus shape the psyche’s frame;

Deontic law bids freedom through the fog.

“Act for all,” her torch does light the maze;

Her paradigm turns shadow into light

.The foes may scorn, yet lens holds fast as star;

Minds, countless, order’s elegy crushed.

The cosmos bends through ash by lens’ clear glow;

The critic’s voice does stitch the light through time.

From jagged peaks where dead gods lie in ash,

A prophet’s cry does shatter creeds apart.

The Übermensch carves void with surging will;

No truth is fixed, all values forged in dust.

Her voice, a flame, dances on chaos’ rim,

While foes clutch dogma, yet her cry holds fast.

Minds, countless, will’s requiem crushed,

The cosmos quakes through ash by fathoming spark.

The prophet’s hand, through fog, does carve the Real,

A mythic light that burns through thought’s unform.

In barren wastes where time’s dust shrouds the light,

A spark, a lens, a cry clash in the dust.

The skeptic’s doubt, the critic’s law, prophet’s will;

Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Cogito lights the psyche, shapes the void,

The will carves stars from thought’s unyielding bed.

The doubt spans dark, the reason hums through dust;

The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky;

Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,

No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

I collide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimension;

My flesh wails anti-form’s unworded shriek.

This tragical destiny wails through barren wastes,

Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The skeptic, critic, prophet shape the Real;

Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

Minds, countless, doubt’s elegy splits the void;

Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil;

Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

V. Incandescence of the Real

Beneath the brown fog of a primal wound,

Where void does kiss the ash of thought’s decay,

A bard’s lost verse, a seer’s dirge, a hymn,

Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

Too many minds, creation’s requiem crushed,

A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Poiesis and lament shred the Real through ash;

The paradox, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

Creation, order writhe in Möbius scars;

The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

From chaos’ maw where stars choke on their ash,

A bard does sing, her seric verse aflame.

Her stanzas weave the nebulae for dust,

Yet chains bind light in markets’ broken stone.

The specie strangles divine sparks in fog;

Theft’s requiem keens through reason’s throat.

No cage can hold the spark of poiesis’ flame;

Minds, countless, verse’s elegy crushed.

The cosmos wakes by bard’s clear fathoming spark;

Her hand does kindle Real through thought’s unform.

In night’s black jaw where ruins whisper low,

A seer’s dirge does tear the veil of ash.

Archetypes crumble, truth scars stone in dust;

Too late it grieves to save reason’s fall.

From fanes to cinders, cries pierce silent fog;

The Idea, shard in twilight, gleams through null.

Minds, countless, lament’s requiem crushed,

The Absolute sings light through reason’s throat.

The seer’s voice, through fog, does carve the Real,

A mythic spark that burns where ruins unform.

A merchant dances to aurum’s silent chant;

Her greed feeds nations blind in thought’s decay.

Coins sprout in fields through fog of chaos’ wound;

The paradox births order from the dust.

From emporia to neon’s pulsing glow,

A spectral hand weaves towers through the ash.

Minds, countless, greed’s requiem crushed,

The cosmos binds through chords of paradox.

The merchant’s hand, through fog, does weave the Real,

A mythic light that shines through thought’s unform.Through spectral voids where time’s dust dims the light,

A verse, a dirge, a hymn clash in the dust.

The bard’s creation, seer’s lament, merchant’s law;

Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Poiesis kindles fire, lament carves lore,

The paradox weaves stars from thought’s dry bed.

Creation spans the void, order hums through dust;

The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky;

Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,

No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

I collide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimension;

My soul shrieks anti-time’s unworded keening.

This tragical destiny keens through spectral voids,

Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The bard, the seer, profiteer shape the Real;

Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

Minds, countless, creation’s elegy rends the void;

Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil;

Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

VI. In the Century’s Waste

Beneath the brown fog of a war-torn dawn,

Where skies choke ash in thought’s unyielding dust,

A linguist’s blade, ontologist’s call, a torch,

Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

Too many minds, strife’s requiem crushed,

A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Semiotics and ontos shred the Real through dust;

The ratio, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

The sign, the being writhe in Möbius scars;

The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

From shadowed streets where words choke on their ash,

A linguist cuts, her blade scales logic’s cliX.

Facts bind the cosmos, signs betray the truth;

The praxis births new meaning in the fog.

Words dance in strife, a dirge through reason’s throat;

The nous and speech align in thought’s decay.

Minds, countless, sign’s requiem crushed,

The cosmos speaks through clarity in ash.

The linguist’s hand, through fog, does carve the Real,

A mythic light that shines where ruins unform.

In sylvan dusk where shadows pool as ash,

Ontologist’s call wakes being from the void.

Dasein asks why, a wound through thought’s unform;

The Nothing haunts, yet Being shines through dust.

Authenticity defies the dark’s cold grasp;

Her requiem names nameless truth in time.

Minds, countless, being’s elegy crushed,

The cosmos trembles, light of ontos glows.

The voice, through fog, does kindle Real’s faint spark,

A mythic truth that burns where ruins unform.

A rationalist strides through ash with torch alight;

Her numbers carve the stone of reason’s truth.

Doubt cuts through dogma, ratio meets the need;

Her clarion breaks the dark in thought’s decay.

The creed’s chains snap, a star burns through the silt;

Minds, countless, truth’s requiem crushed.

The cosmos clears through ash by torch’s bright glow;

The rationalist’s hand carves Real through fog.

In shadowed wastes where time’s ash cloaks the light,

A blade, a call, a torch clash in the dust.

The linguist’s sign, the thinker’s quest, torch’s law;

Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Semiotics shape the meaning, call wakes being,

Ratio carves stars from thought’s unyielding bed.

The signs span dark, the reason hums through dust;

The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky;

Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,

No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

I collide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimension;

My breath wails anti-form’s unworded shriek.

This tragical destiny wails through shadowed wastes,

Yet holds the whole of being and nonbeing.

The linguist, thinker, rationalist shape the Real;

Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

Minds, countless, sign’s elegy splits the void;

Their spark unmakes the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil;

Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

VII. Eternal Dialectic

Beneath the brown fog of time’s cracked mirror,

Where nous does pierce the veil of thought’s decay,

A querent’s thorn, a critic’s lens, a blade,

Seek light through ash where reason’s roots lie bare.

Too many minds, truth’s requiem crushed,

A river’s dirge keens through the cosmic null.

Elenchus and critique shred the Real through ash;

Semiotics, a splinter, threads unbeing’s wail.

The query, sign writhe in Möbius scars;

The Absolute hums void in thought’s unform.

From timeless dust where stones whisper their ruin,

A querent probes, her thorn tears doxa’s veil.

No creed can hold, elenchus cuts the root;

The speculum of wisdom cracks in null.

A sibyl’s dirge resounds through reason’s throat;

Minds, countless, truth’s requiem crushed.

The cosmos wakes by thorn’s clear fathoming spark;

The querent’s hand does kindle Real through time.

In tranquil voids where time chokes on its dust,

A critic stands, her lens does bend the Real.

The spatium, tempus shape the psyche’s frame;

“Act for all,” her torch lights reason’s maze.

Her paradigm turns shadow into light;

Minds, countless, order’s elegy crushed.

The cosmos bends through ash by lens’ clear glow;

The critic’s voice does stitch the light through time.

From shadowed streets where words choke on their ash,

A linguist cuts, her blade scales logic’s cliX.

Signs betray truth, yet praxis shapes the Real;

Words dance in strife through reason’s unyielding throat.

Minds, countless, sign’s requiem crushed,

The cosmos speaks through clarity in ash.

The linguist’s hand, through fog, does carve the Real,

A mythic light that shines where ruins unform.

Through spectral rifts where time’s dust dims the light,

A thorn, a lens, a blade clash in the dust.

The querent’s doubt, the critic’s law, linguist’s sign;

Their strife keens dirge through reason’s barren bed.

Doubt pricks the psyche, critique shapes the void,

Semiotics carve stars from thought’s dry bed.

The signs span dark, the reason hums through dust;

The world, a lyre with ash-strung cords, hums null.

Its requiem unveils where ruins join the sky;

Truth spills through cracks of mortal stone’s lament.

The Absolute, a spark in thought’s unform,

No dark can dim its unworded, endless scream.

We are but tiny meaning particles,

Yet hold the whole of being and nonbeing.

I collide with the black hole, lost in time’s dimension;

My heart shrieks anti-time’s unworded keening.

The querent, critic, linguist shape the Real;

Their strife’s a requiem where unform burns.

Minds, countless, truth’s elegy unmakes void;

Their spark unforms the stars in spaceless gyre.

The Absolute, unworded, shatters veil;

Its pulse screams Real beyond all speech’s end.

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