“How might one appeal? How might one atone? I have come to feel That neither may be known. For who can say forsooth That he has been forgiven? In searching for the Truth, To madness he is driven! Upon what divine alter Must oneself be cast In order not to faulter And be redeemed at last? Where does salvation lie? How odd to so inquire; For one could not know why He ought to flee from fire.” So went the scholar’s lecture To his pupils in the hall; For retort, one might conjecture, They were void of wherewithal. Yet one lone student bold Stood swiftly to commence An ill-considered scold Of his teacher’s tall pretense. “An error, sir,” he began, “Forms foundation for your thought; You find folly in the quest of Man To seek what you see not. How could one of intellect So hastily assume The absence of an Architect Who has designed his room? Though our homes and draftsmen vary, The former in form and latter in name, The latter agree we ought be wary, For the former to flame all burn the same.” The scholar, taken aback By the audacity Of his student’s attack On his claims veracity, Paused before he spoke In response to his protester, Laughing as though at a joke Told by a witty jester. “You speak with such conviction, For that I count you brave. Yet, you suffer an affliction: You have yet to leave your cave.” “If I may,” the student started With no less confidence, “You may not!” the scholar darted From his lectern in defense. “Another interruption I shall not tolerate As I impart instruction Do not altercate.” The student, somewhat wise, Ceased argumentation. Silence at times concession implies, At others, contemplation. “As I said,” began the scholar, “Inferno is subjective; The treasures of a pauper A prince deems dull, defective. This should be the basis For all moralities: Seek not some god’s oasis, Embrace base banalities.” “No!” exclaimed the student To the horror of the rest; Being impatiently prudent, Wayward words he works to best. “Your cynical refrain Of utter disenchantment Akin to screams of pain On a battlefield encampment, Brings to all with ears And a humble, humane heart Fear-inspired tears, From weary eyes they part. I beseech you, sir, Consider my objections. Do not our sorrows stir With woeful soul infections.” The hall’s air hung haunted, Silence starves audition. The scholar, dumbstruck, daunted, Declared, without contrition, “Quiet, you fool! Take your leave at once! Elsewhere may you sling your gruel You call the 'Truth,' you dunce!”
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