Rote Poem by Richard Blay

You starve us with what we know
And stab us with what was known
That our minds now bleeds, and best know
What was known, but knows not.
For one to be known, he ought to know
Best what was known, which I may not be known.
Unfortunately, He who knows
What was known is said to be best.
I know you know is not best.
But what can we? If authorities knows not,
Or knows but wish not to know
For they think that’s best.
What difference makes us, conductors?
I boast not I know, because I know
I know not all to know. If chance
May be given us to give, the little
That we know we know best, that lies
In us, then we shall do best with the rest.
And made known what nature’s blessed us with.