Philosophers

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Lonely outposts of the mindWhere armistice is undeclared,And men in ragged putteesKeep watch over the islandsClutching spindly riflesAnd their long rusted swords.They have held to the code:Bushido, a perfect scepticism.Old age has not convinced themThat the sun-god of reasonHad his reasons to surrender.They look upward for proofsOf the old struggle,And, seeing less than nothing,They grieve for the lost Zero.

© Greene Richard