Through Towers on Towers of Half-Done Rooms

Inner centuries

Of outer landscapes,

More than we want and

Less than we hope for,

Wrote poor Pessoa

In his disquiet,

Young man in Lisbon,

Long century gone.

All around the world

Live makers like him,

The mason who bricks

A raw cathedral

From barrels and scraps,

Adding wings and naves,

Never finishing,

The custodian

Whose spiral journals

Sprawl hand-drawn epics

All undone at death—

Hallucinating,

Addled orb weavers

Of chaotic webs,

Convinced their chaos

Can come nearer bliss

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