'The Art's Final Hour' Poem by Antonis J. Kazantzoglou

I close your books, o god of theirs
because my judge she is grander than you
grief humble before her mercy
as when she asks me who are you, why write
you yet another indifference in the set.

I gaze at your pasts, o god our god
and poetry is more powerful than myself
the pen minute before her might
when she shows me who you are, why indifferent
you the great infinite nullness in the universe.

The hour of my dying is not far
it is coming with the death of the arts
I light candles at your windows; o god their god
when the others cheer my crucifixion
before the truth of man's new era.

I hold their books, o god my god
and their knowledge is greater than you
and love insignificant before her matter
when she allows me to see, the future
this is the truth of the death of the arts.

I open their futures, o god our god
because my time is shorter than you
your truth eternal but still unbelievable
as when it strikes me who are you, why not answer
you who to me are always, yes o god of mine.