• Author: Burch, Jesse
• Editor: Cuff, Joseph J.
• Newspaper: The Eastern Echo volume 3
• Page Number:
• Date: 03 Spring 1958
• Tags:
• poetry

THE SAGE

by JESSE BURCH

There stood a Doctor, Nurse, and Wife, Before a glass bound cage: Peering in and listening to—the dying of the sage. “A brilliant man,’’ some often said. His quotes were known and treasured. Yet here, upon a mat of straw, His final quotes were measured. In shrieking voice, and bulging eyes; He insanely orated, with ardent fervor And yet, at times, he whispered low— As lover speaks to lover.

He spoke dejectedly :

“The glory of all our yesterdays— Lies fallow in the thwarted dreams of tomorrow; Thus each bright morsel of impregnated hope— Slips through our gnarled hands of years. Eons of unfruitfulness, Barren, Void; Sequined with acid hate, despair, Lost Love, like shallow vanity— No more! ... No more! ..."

With quaking, emaciated hand, he pointed With feverish, bloodshot eyes he glared, In slaving hatred, at his wife And screamed in darkness, dispasred.

"Lust! Sorceress, Grotesque, she— Conveys, decimated, the piquancy sought; Cold ashes of all my bygone fires, Bitter, useless, residue, of all my trusts: Condemned me to anguish, Condemned me to Death, Condemned, Proseribed, Pilloried.’’

His wandering mind—his restless thought, A jumbled, disjounted mass : But, as he glanced toward the Nurse,

Her tenderness, recalled, surpassed,

He crooned:

‘‘But from my veil of darkness, shines a star, Broad beams, that light my fumbling way; Gently guiding, prompting, luring, My blinded eyes, my faltering pace. My silent throat gives voice, bell toned, From the very depths of austerity— That spark of regeneration, flames forth Stimulated by the puissance of unbiased Love, The Love of God, The Love of Man, and too. . By another name . . Tolerance! Tolerance . . disrobed . . manacled . . Shamed! How Grecian Her unblemished flesh ; How perfect every limb, Her smile from whence that star shone down, Her smile, Her touch that eradicates my pain. Ah! yes, Ah! yes, I rather thought... here Is Solace, Peace, Love and now—’’

With horror he recoiled, for there the Doctor stood.

“Linked, wrist to wrist, I see— Her hulking swain, in cloth of black, Face shadowed by the cloak, about— His hollowed cheeks and marble lips” He cried, ‘‘Tis Death! Tis Death! His fetid breath coils steaming in the mist. Closer, they come, alas! closer they come, They touch my fevered brow; they— Mortify, my very soul, icy fingers upon my brain, Yet, thus I see, with unwavering sight, The fallacy of men; For tolerance too has paid the price Of Death's great Wizardry ....."

With perplexed gaze, the viewers gasped, The Sage fell in repose, And from his limp and dangling hand; There dropped a mangled Rose.