Glory

Within a coffee-shop I think:
Upon a bench of crafted wood,
As I imbibe my sweetened drink
I dream of noble things and good:

The shelves of books rise high above.
What dwells within their written lines?
The whisper in each paper glove
The wists of former times refines.

Within each dwells great words of old,
Scribed down in past days long forgot,
And relics they stand, stories told:
But what was each its writer's thought?

These texts recount of glories vast,
Of deeds, adventures, scholar's tomes:
As real as now, 'twas real the past,
And each these legends reached their doomes.

Both foundations and monuments
They stand to their posterity:
Displaying glorious excellence,
While built on with austerity.

But pray, what remains presently
But dusty shelves? Parchment and mold.
The ancients see their children's pageantry;
But souls are cold, no heart is bold.

Old weeping wisdoms stand so high,
With all their glory scarred and frayed.
Immortal words are asked to die,
By heirs who have from fathers strayed.

But shall this glory pass away,
Heroic aeons last no more?
Let it not be- let each man pray
A hero's heart to have at core.