Esse Poem by Leo Yankevich

<small>'And if he should have to compete with those who had been always prisoners, by laying down the law about those shadows while he was blinking before his eyes were settled down—and it would take a good long time to get used to things—wouldn't they all laugh at him and say he had spoiled his eyesight by going up there, and it was not worth-while so much as to try to go up? And would they not kill anyone who would try to release them and take them up, if they could somehow lay hands on him and kill him? '
'That they would! ' said he. (Socrates)
—from Book VII (the allegory of the cave) of Plato's The Republic</small>

To be a little touched, the sacred way:
in slants of light that glorify windows.
To be a tad estranged, unlike all those
who smile as guiltless gods against the grey

twilight, bursting to flame, bursting to flame.
To be, to be, beyond the cage of be-
ing, court, arbiter, jury, holy see—
nor here nor there, imbecilically lame

in that august mystery and graven mood.
To be, a moment, still as stone, bright stone
that's grasped like truth, alone amid the lone,
though hoisted high upon a crimsoned rood.