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The crusade against Communism was even more imaginary than the specter of Communism.

quote by A.J.P. Taylor
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“Mathew” 6: 9-13

“our father in heaven”
(ode to the man who has children,
sitting around in an imaginary
place envied by other members
of the brainwashed)

“hallowed be your name”
(the sheep that baaaaa in unison
believe that there is a sound made
by all the simultaneous crying in
desperation which has then been
construed as a “name” then given
to the imaginary listener in said
imaginary place)

“your kingdom come”
(evidently, this wondrous trailer
park in the sky is something that is
supposed to be open to anyone sad
enough to submit their will to the pool
of simultaneous sheep baaaaa ing away
at the wall in hopes that the imaginary
listener in this imaginary place will
say something back)

“your will be done”
(those committed to baaaaa ing & to the
spread of this act of yelling to the sky in
hopes that said imaginary listener in said
imaginary trailer park will say something
back, wrote a lot of their babbling fiction
down & apparently there is where the aspiring
brainwashed can find the how to manual
for walking on four legs, growing a thick
coat of bustling hair & chewing grass)

“on earth as it is in heaven”
(and once you drink the kool aid, there is
no going back according to the sheep
gazing at the stars, baaaaa ing in unison
hoping for the trailer park in the sky
where they can continue to baaaaa
together, grow their coats together &
chew grass together obliviously)

“give us this day our daily bread”
(baaaaa ing loud enough at the sky is
supposed to bring 3 square meals back to
the sheep who have done so, because
after having created an imaginary listener

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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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My imaginary friend

My imaginary friend
Has got brown eyes
And brown hair
My imaginary friend
Is as cuddly
As polo bear
My imaginary friend
Is playful and kind
My imaginary friend
Has got a big mind
My imaginary friend
Is complete with care
My imaginary friend
Knows how to share
My imaginary friend
Is my sweetheart
My imaginary friend
Likes so much art
My imaginary friend
Is really fun
The truth is
I don’t have imaginary friend
All of this is my mum

M.Reka 2006

poem by Marinela Reka
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Imaginary Diva

Late last night I had a dream
And it was then I seen her
She didnt need no diamond rings
Fancy cars, versace things to please her
Shes my perfect girl
And I call her my imaginary diva
Every girl she passes by
Just cant deny that they would love to be her
All the guys comparing sizes
Tucking shirts in, fixing ties to please her
Shes my perfect girl
Exclusive to my world
No you cant get her
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard
All you have to do is close your eyes
Forget real life and fantasies
Erase bad thoughts start to replace
Create your own amazing place
Shes a real time girl
In my imaginary world
Take a good look at her
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard
So listen up this so called classy ladys
Sipping fizz in vip bars
She could teach a thing or to
To you, your outfit, attitude and visa
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard

song performed by Westlife
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Lyric

Here comes my faith to carry me on
A faith not of grade
I fight to to stay strong so i
Stand accused of playing numb
I know it is wrong
For I give my strength
I give my heart
Take these chains
And hold them as ours
For I must shine
And I will a star
In a season all mine
A lyric, a time, a crusade, a line
One minute, a friend, a road without end
A lyric, a time, a crusade, a line
One minute, a friend, a road without end
So here is the view
I cast about
Im leaving no room
For you to get out
Youll never get out
Dove, cant you cry without an aside
?
I need you as my way
Across my life
To spend these years
Create a new thought
For I give you strength
And offer my heart
Take these chains
And hold them as ours
For Im a star
And I will shine
In a season all mine
A lyric, a time, a crusade, a line
One minute, a friend, a road without end
A lyric, a time, a crusade, a line
One minute, a friend, a road without end
A lyric, a time, a crusade, a line
One minute, a friend, a road without end
A lyric, a time, a crusade, a line
One minute, a friend, a road without end
A road without end

song performed by Zwan
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Imaginary

The imaginary power takes over the world, and the people in it.
Making minute things important, and important things unnecessary.
And so the world turns.

The imaginary status places and artificial happiness over the world, and the people in it.
Creating avoidable conflicts to arise at new magnitudes.
And so the world turns.

The imaginary wealth controls the world, and the people in it.
Presenting new desirable ideas to replace the already insufficient ones.
And so the world turns.

The imaginary need drives selfishness in the world, and the people in it.
Allowing happiness, fear, and lust to lead their lives.
And so the world turns.

This world is unfortunately not imaginary,
Going day to day with imaginary things at the center of the lives of all.
Soon the world will no longer turn.

poem by Kaitlin Schmidt
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The Scripture of the Golden Eternity

1
Did I create that sky? Yes, for, if it was anything other than a conception in my mind I wouldnt have said 'Sky'-That is why I am the golden eternity. There are not two of us here, reader and writer, but one, one golden eternity, One-Which-It-Is, That-Which- Everything-Is.

2
The awakened Buddha to show the way, the chosen Messiah to die in the degradation of sentience, is the golden eternity. One that is what is, the golden eternity, or, God, or, Tathagata-the name. The Named One. The human God. Sentient Godhood. Animate Divine. The Deified One. The Verified One. The Free One. The Liberator. The Still One. The settled One. The Established One. Golden Eternity. All is Well. The Empty One. The Ready One. The Quitter. The Sitter. The Justified One. The Happy One.

3
That sky, if it was anything other than an illusion of my mortal mind I wouldnt have said 'that sky.' Thus I made that sky, I am the golden eternity. I am Mortal Golden Eternity.

4
I was awakened to show the way, chosen to die in the degradation of life, because I am Mortal Golden Eternity.

5
I am the golden eternity in mortal animate form.

6
Strictly speaking, there is no me, because all is emptiness. I am empty, I am non-existent. All is bliss.

7
This truth law has no more reality than the world.

8
You are the golden eternity because there is no me and no you, only one golden eternity.

9
The Realizer. Entertain no imaginations whatever, for the thing is a no-thing. Knowing this then is Human Godhood.

10
This world is the movie of what everything is, it is one movie, made of the same stuff throughout, belonging to nobody, which is what everything is.

11
If we were not all the golden eternity we wouldnt be here. Because we are here we cant help being pure. To tell man to be pure on account of the punishing angel that punishes the bad and the rewarding angel that rewards the good would be like telling the water 'Be Wet'-Never the less, all things depend on supreme reality, which is already established as the record of Karma earned-fate.

12
God is not outside us but is just us, the living and the dead, the never-lived and never-died. That we should learn it only now, is supreme reality, it was written a long time ago in the archives of universal mind, it is already done, there's no more to do.

13
This is the knowledge that sees the golden eternity in all things, which is us, you, me, and which is no longer us, you, me.

14
What name shall we give it which hath no name, the common eternal matter of the mind? If we were to call it essence, some might think it meant perfume, or gold, or honey. It is not even mind. It is not even discussible, groupable into words; it is not even endless, in fact it is not even mysterious or inscrutably inexplicable; it is what is; it is that; it is this. We could easily call the golden eternity 'This.' But 'what's in a name?' asked Shakespeare. The golden eternity by another name would be as sweet. A Tathagata, a God, a Buddha by another name, an Allah, a Sri Krishna, a Coyote, a Brahma, a Mazda, a Messiah, an Amida, an Aremedeia, a Maitreya, a Palalakonuh, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 would be as sweet. The golden eternity is X, the golden eternity is A, the golden eternity is /\, the golden eternity is O, the golden eternity is [ ], the golden eternity is t-h-e-g-o-l-d-e-n-e-t-e-r- n-i-t-y. In the beginning was the word; before the beginning, in the beginningless infinite neverendingness, was the essence. Both the word 'god' and the essence of the word, are emptiness. The form of emptiness which is emptiness having taken the form of form, is what you see and hear and feel right now, and what you taste and smell and think as you read this. Wait awhile, close your eyes, let your breathing stop three seconds or so, listen to the inside silence in the womb of the world, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, re-recognize the bliss you forgot, the emptiness and essence and ecstasy of ever having been and ever to be the golden eternity. This is the lesson you forgot.

15
The lesson was taught long ago in the other world systems that have naturally changed into the empty and awake, and are here now smiling in our smile and scowling in our scowl. It is only like the golden eternity pretending to be smiling and scowling to itself; like a ripple on the smooth ocean of knowing. The fate of humanity is to vanish into the golden eternity, return pouring into its hands which are not hands. The navel shall receive, invert, and take back what'd issued forth; the ring of flesh shall close; the personalities of long dead heroes are blank dirt.

16
The point is we're waiting, not how comfortable we are while waiting. Paleolithic man waited by caves for the realization of why he was there, and hunted; modern men wait in beautified homes and try to forget death and birth. We're waiting for the realization that this is the golden eternity.

17
It came on time.

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poem by Jack Kerouac
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A specter is haunting Europe - the specter of communism.

quote by Karl Marx
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There is a specter haunting Europe, the specter of Communism.

quote by Karl Marx
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Though imaginary…

Equator is an imaginary line
Around which I build the geography.
Solar signs are imaginary divisions
Around which I build the astrology.
God is an imaginary figure
Around which I build the religion.
What, if your love of me is imaginary?
Let me write volumes about you and our love.
16.12.2008

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Dancehall

You could lose your mind
easier than you would like to think
your best friend could up and leave you
playing tricks and cold deceive you
standing there people stare
let down by your own mind
Day of appreciation
for ways your mind has not yet let you down
the truth is that we will all go
maybe five minutes after the show
you know you are a shooting star
a blazing flash then gone
Are we advancing
or a collapsing visionary
are we really here
are we imaginary
as my thoughts separates
into the many frayed parts
torn shattered bits
my mind falling apart
Are we advancing
or a collapsing visionary
are we really here
are we imaginary
as my thoughts separates
into the many frayed parts
torn shattered bits
my mind falling apart
What if there was such a thing
what if theres such a thing as dependence day
there's no self congratulation
just a day of appreciation
quietly humbly
for things that have not gone wrong
Imagine the frustration
of losing bearing of the simplest thing
so come with your best
and do your worst before
you cant remember what you came for
Are we advancing
or a collapsing visionary
are we really here
are we imaginary
as my thoughts separates
into the many frayed parts
torn shattered bits
my mind falling apart
Blazing out the mains
hungry flames consume all that I see
Are we advancing

[...] Read more

song performed by 311
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Uncle Alvarez

Theres a portrait of uncle alvarez
Hangin in the hall
Nobody wants to look at it
But uncle alvarez sees us all
Oh, oh, oh, imaginary accomplishments
Hey, hey, hey, you visionary guy
You might even shake the hands of presidents
Better send a postcard and keep the family quiet
Hes not really a part cherokee indian
He didnt fight in the civil war
Hes just eugene isaac alvarez
We feel sorry for the wall
Oh, oh, oh, imaginary accomplishments
Hey, hey, hey, you visionary guy
You might even shake the hands of presidents
Youre gonna make em sorry when you die
And its a long way down
Youre hoping for a heart attack
Runnin around
Investing in this and that
And your beautiful wife keeps your life on a shelf for you
Safe in the bedroom
Where theres no dust or mildew
And its hard to believe you were once a beautiful dancer
Better just to shake it off
As you write your resume
Dont think of uncle alvarez
And the price he had to pay
Oh, oh, oh, imaginary accomplishments
Hey, hey, hey, you visionary guy
You might even shake the hands of presidents
Youre gonna make em sorry when you die
Oh, oh, oh, imaginary accomplishments
Hey, hey, hey, you visionary guy
You might even shake the hands of presidents
Better send some money to the alma mater

song performed by Liz Phair
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Imaginary Dream (so Sweet Yet So Sad)

Into my life you came…unexpectedly
Deep into my heart you entered…unknowingly
In your arms I felt the warmth and comfort…tenderly
Blindly I begun to love you…gradually
You loved me back…predictably
Our life became but bliss…Spontaneously
Just like an imaginary dream so sweet yet so sad…truly

Together we enjoyed all life's joy…peacefully
Somehow we both knew we would be separated…inevitably
Until you left…finally
As time went by I waited for your return…patiently
With the promises you made I looked forward for your return…daily
But distance robbed me of you and your affection melted…suddenly
Little did I realize the wait was in vain…innocently
Our story became but an imaginary dream so sweet yet so sad…truly

At a snap of a finger I awoke to a beautiful nightmare!
Everything was but an imaginary dream, so sweet yet so sad…truly

Despite all this the love in my heart lives…unconditionally
Thus became but an imaginary dream…so sweet yet so sad eventually

poem by Claudia Nkhata
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Oatmeal

I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,
as he called it with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,
and unsual willingness to disintigrate, oatmeal should
not be eaten alone.
He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat
it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had
enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John
Milton.
Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as
wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something
from it.
Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the
"Ode to a Nightingale."
He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad
a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through
his porridge.
He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his
pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,
and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they
made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if
they got it right.
An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket
through a hole in his pocket.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the
configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up
and peer about, and then lay \ itself down slightly off the mark,
causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about
the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some
stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal
alone.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words
lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there

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poem by Galway Kinnell
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Love Crusade

Words: michael w. smith and wayne kirkpatrick
Music: michael w. smith
Brother, havent you noticed
Theres a war on the soul of man
Hey there, sister
The world is reaching
It could use a helping hand
So come on
No dues are needed
Just a kind heart will be enough
Theres a hunger
But you can feed it
Sign the card and join the club
Bridge
We are drawing from an ancient solution
Were embarking on a new regime
We are calling for a new revolution
Be part of the parade
Get on the love crusade
Chorus:
Na na na na
Na na na na na
Na na na na na na na na
Na na na na
Na na na na na
Na na na na na na na na
Jesus said love your neighbor
Like you would love yourself
Get together
Do him a favor
Give your love to someone else
Bridge ii
Just a little sets the wheels in motion
A little more and we could change the world
You can shine a light if you have the notion
So get out of the shade
Get on the love crusade
Chorus
Rap:
Come on everyone
Theres a lot that can be done
A little love can go a long, long way
So rise to the occasion
Of a radical invasion
(hey) dont let the world go down in flames
Fight the fire with a fire
Push it to the limit
And be a renegade
Light a fuse-make a spark
Try to penetrate a heart

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song performed by Michael W. Smith
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Childrens Crusade

Young men, soldiers, nineteen fourteen
Marching through countries theyd never seen
Virgins with rifles, a game of charades
All for a childrens crusade
Pawns in the game are not victims of chance
Strewn on the fields of belgium and france
Poppies for young men, deaths bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
The children of england would never be slaves
Theyre trapped on the wire and dying in waves
The flower of england face down in the mud
And stained in the blood of a whole generation
Corpulent generals safe behind lines
Historys lessons drowned in red wine
Poppies for young men, deaths bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
All for a childrens crusade
The children of england would never be slaves
Theyre trapped on the wire and dying in waves
The flower of england face down in the mud
And stained in the blood of a whole generation
Midnight in soho, nineteen eighty-four
Fixing in doorways, opium slaves
Poppies for young men, such bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
All for a childrens crusade

song performed by Sting
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Une Gravure Fantastique (A Fantastic Engraving)

Ce spectre singulier n'a pour toute toilette,
Grotesquement campé sur son front de squelette,
Qu'un diadème affreux sentant le carnaval.
Sans éperons, sans fouet, il essouffle un cheval,
Fantôme comme lui, rosse apocalyptique,
Qui bave des naseaux comme un épileptique.
Au travers de l'espace ils s'enfoncent tous deux,
Et foulent l'infini d'un sabot hasardeux.
Le cavalier promène un sabre qui flamboie
Sur les foules sans nom que sa monture broie,
Et parcourt, comme un prince inspectant sa maison,
Le cimetière immense et froid, sans horizon,
Où gisent, aux lueurs d'un soleil blanc et terne,
Les peuples de l'histoire ancienne et moderne.

A Fantastic Print

That strange specter wears nothing more
Than a diadem, atrocious and tawdry,
Grotesquely fixed on his skeleton brow.
Without spurs, without whip, he winds a horse,
A phantom like himself, an apocalyptic steed
That foams at the nostrils like an epileptic.
Both of them are plunging through space
And trampling on the infinite with daring feet.
The horseman is waving a flaming sword
Over the nameless crowds who are crushed by his mount
And examines like a prince inspecting his house,
The graveyard, immense and cold, with no horizon,
Where lie, in the glimmer of a white, lifeless sun,
The races of history, ancient and modern.

— Translated by William Aggeler

Fantastic Engraving

A monstrous spectre carries on his forehead,
And at a rakish tilt, grotesquely horrid,
A crown such as at carnivals parade.
Without a Whip or spur he rides a jade,
A phantom-like apocalyptic moke,
Whose nostrils seem with rabid froth to smoke.
Across unbounded space the couple moves
Spurning infinity with reckless hooves.
The horseman waves a sword that lights the gloom
Of nameless crowds he tramples to their doom,
And, like a prince his mansion, goes inspecting
The graveyard, which, no skyline intersecting,
Contains, beneath a sun that's white and bleak,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Unfettered Kite

Permit the effervescence of the wind
To don on your dishabille glacial shoulders
And take you in a sailing apt for your besieging
To an island heaving of palm trees
Swaying and combing of forking possibilities
Chances are, well, ineffable they are
And I cannot paint it with words
Because my palette is dull and eroded
But I know and I submit to believing
That chance will guide you in, by your elbow
To a promenade, a cavalcade, or a castle
Where no eyes had ever been to musing
Not even conception can even pry in
So leave this undulant slumber
And sear past the poignant clouds
Because you cannot be tethered in a ground
In the semblance of an effulgent specter
Invisible, lingering and malingering
To twine and string your unfathomable fate
And as you submit and remit
The jewels that shall permit
A key towards emanation
Of greater chances, in greater grounds
I shall heave you back difficultly
When I stare back at your backward glances
Yet I will endure and pull your emollient string
So you would only set off farther
Yonder the aptitude of your strings
Past the inclement horizon
Floundering past my aqueous vision
And I shall unstring you willingly,
My unfettered kite
And sedate myself with vicarious oblivion
As I muse upon the turgid azure skies
That you dominated like an adroit bird
With the aroma of yuletide breeze
And pantomimic carols tinkering
On the rustling and toppling leaves
Of the gyratory December, the last 31st
Of the first last year, and I will be,
Myself, an unfettered kite
As I lay in solitude and jealousy
Unfettered from the very start
And when the wind blows upon my spine
With no hands to pull back my strings,
No one to point the nonexistent escape door,
Fended by blithe despondent fingers
Of another egotistic specter in a ballet
Beneath the melody of her own canopy
I am left with no other submission

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poem by Norman Santos
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A Visit To The Small Town Cemetary

The tomb stones were dusty gray and evocative.

'The Coal vein gave out and left us with dust.'

'Our town was boom, bust and bust.'

'The new high-way passed us by'

'The drought killed the crops and prosperity for us.'

'Our kids went to the city abandoning us'

'The capitalists sucked us dry.'

'Nafta took everything we had left'

'The plant closed and we got unemployment'

Agribusiness bought all the land and put in condos'

'We lost out to development'

'The banks stopped making us loans for seed and equipment.'

'The river got polluted and the tourists stopped'

Spectures of pioneer ghosts and generations past
confronted me asking
'What have you done?
We died here for this land
now it is all gone?

We carried water from the river bank
for the house and the live stock;
built the gables from board planks
and imported cedar;
Carried great grandmothers piano
by wagon-train from across the sea;
eight thousand miles to hear our children play and sing
of future hopes and dreams.

Our town is map-less memory now
gone with the next consensus
entombed in photographs sepia
in immigrant notes and letters;
Indians and Negroes,
Irish and Italians
Latvians and Poles.
Swedish and Norwegian hard scrabble
French fishermen

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 10

THE GATES of heav’n unfold: Jove summons all
The gods to council in the common hall.
Sublimely seated, he surveys from far
The fields, the camp, the fortune of the war,
And all th’ inferior world. From first to last, 5
The sov’reign senate in degrees are plac’d.
Then thus th’ almighty sire began: “Ye gods,
Natives or denizens of blest abodes,
From whence these murmurs, and this change of mind,
This backward fate from what was first design’d? 10
Why this protracted war, when my commands
Pronounc’d a peace, and gave the Latian lands?
What fear or hope on either part divides
Our heav’ns, and arms our powers on diff’rent sides?
A lawful time of war at length will come, 15
(Nor need your haste anticipate the doom),
When Carthage shall contend the world with Rome,
Shall force the rigid rocks and Alpine chains,
And, like a flood, come pouring on the plains.
Then is your time for faction and debate, 20
For partial favor, and permitted hate.
Let now your immature dissension cease;
Sit quiet, and compose your souls to peace.”
Thus Jupiter in few unfolds the charge;
But lovely Venus thus replies at large: 25
“O pow’r immense, eternal energy,
(For to what else protection can we fly?)
Seest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare
In fields, unpunish’d, and insult my care?
How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train, 30
In shining arms, triumphant on the plain?
Ev’n in their lines and trenches they contend,
And scarce their walls the Trojan troops defend:
The town is fill’d with slaughter, and o’erfloats,
With a red deluge, their increasing moats. 35
Æneas, ignorant, and far from thence,
Has left a camp expos’d, without defense.
This endless outrage shall they still sustain?
Shall Troy renew’d be forc’d and fir’d again?
A second siege my banish’d issue fears, 40
And a new Diomede in arms appears.
One more audacious mortal will be found;
And I, thy daughter, wait another wound.
Yet, if with fates averse, without thy leave,
The Latian lands my progeny receive, 45
Bear they the pains of violated law,
And thy protection from their aid withdraw.
But, if the gods their sure success foretell;
If those of heav’n consent with those of hell,
To promise Italy; who dare debate 50

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 2

ALL were attentive to the godlike man,
When from his lofty couch he thus began:
“Great queen, what you command me to relate
Renews the sad remembrance of our fate:
An empire from its old foundations rent, 5
And ev’ry woe the Trojans underwent;
A peopled city made a desart place;
All that I saw, and part of which I was:
Not ev’n the hardest of our foes could hear,
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 10
And now the latter watch of wasting night,
And setting stars, to kindly rest invite;
But, since you take such int’rest in our woe,
And Troy’s disastrous end desire to know,
I will restrain my tears, and briefly tell 15
What in our last and fatal night befell.
“By destiny compell’d, and in despair,
The Greeks grew weary of the tedious war,
And by Minerva’s aid a fabric rear’d,
Which like a steed of monstrous height appear’d: 20
The sides were plank’d with pine; they feign’d it made
For their return, and this the vow they paid.
Thus they pretend, but in the hollow side
Selected numbers of their soldiers hide:
With inward arms the dire machine they load, 25
And iron bowels stuff the dark abode.
In sight of Troy lies Tenedos, an isle
(While Fortune did on Priam’s empire smile)
Renown’d for wealth; but, since, a faithless bay,
Where ships expos’d to wind and weather lay. 30
There was their fleet conceal’d. We thought, for Greece
Their sails were hoisted, and our fears release.
The Trojans, coop’d within their walls so long,
Unbar their gates, and issue in a throng,
Like swarming bees, and with delight survey 35
The camp deserted, where the Grecians lay:
The quarters of the sev’ral chiefs they show’d;
Here Phœnix, here Achilles, made abode;
Here join’d the battles; there the navy rode.
Part on the pile their wond’ring eyes employ: 40
The pile by Pallas rais’d to ruin Troy.
Thymoetes first (’t is doubtful whether hir’d,
Or so the Trojan destiny requir’d)
Mov’d that the ramparts might be broken down,
To lodge the monster fabric in the town. 45
But Capys, and the rest of sounder mind,
The fatal present to the flames designed,
Or to the wat’ry deep; at least to bore
The hollow sides, and hidden frauds explore.
The giddy vulgar, as their fancies guide, 50

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
Added by Poetry Lover
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