And of reality no-one can tell

Though full of direct knowledge of his fellows
Whose eyes and faces are a script humane;
Though voices sing to him like Lobos' cellos
In lack and loss and woe this man remains..

In times gone by,the voice and face sufficed.
Poets'  music  seemed to us almost  divine;
But now a subtle torture's been devised
To write with pen and letters intertwined.

This man, though wise like cat,or bear or owl,
Has failed in his acquaintance with the pen.
Nor does he have the words which politicians howl.
Nor can he read more than his list of sin.

For now the map is where the mind must dwell
And of reality,no-one can tell.