In the shadow of ancient buildings,
We lead our little lives –
Petty, provincial, groundlessly proud –
Warm, delicate, flitting creatures,
Flowing between the titans
Of Gothic, indifferent stone.
Yet who built the titans?
People as small as we.
Smaller, in fact, as well as fewer,
And with the clumsier tools at hand.
They were not angels, built out of holy fire,
But only flesh, craving and craven,
As prone to doubt and failure
As any of your drinking-pals.
History makes them loom colossal,
But they were the same ungainly things,
On a brief vacation from nothingness,
Made for the dust, making the noble world.
