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.