Flames of Faith: The Ballad Of Bruno

Perhaps in time the truth will shine In most profound of her renditions, Though till that day, men fear, men pray And kill and die for superstitions. Four centuries have long since passed Since doors slammed shut to his lone cell, Seven long years, captive and tortured, Branded a heretic, damned to hell. His pulsing mind would not sit idle Would not conform to dim conventions, His inquires demanded truth And spit disdain at false inventions. And only death could answer questions Which struck the sanity of masses, subdued blind comforts of belief and fissured dogmas dreary glasses. They say a cry of heart’s repentance May have repelled the sentence stemmed, But stoic silence fueled the fires Feasting on hearts and souls condemned. The snarling flames crawled up his body Like burning snakes with razor tongues, How must it feel to have your flesh burn? its soot-black smoke hacking your lungs. A fist is thrust into his face The Christian cross clenched in its grips, It reeks of murder and disgrace Yet seeks vain homage from his lips. How many eyes have froze in horror Before its simple wooden frame, How many lives destroyed and ravaged To “punish sin” or in “god’s name”? But if indeed there is a god, Then who dwells closer to His presence? The priests of trite dogmatic myth, Or the scientist - learning His true essence? In final act of scornful triumph, Predicting worlds to surely come, The Cross is slapped back in their faces As his heart plays its final strum. The dancing waves of grisly flames Splashed on the canvass of dark night, Yet gallantly the fire burned Casting afar its shining light. Exposing faces hid by darkness Darkness of motive, heart and mind, Of blind beliefs and dreadful dogmas Shielding the truths which we shall find. His fire burns as bright today, Lighting the torch which mankind waves, Shinning the way to our enlightenment, Melting the chains of bounded slaves. That night tore open, bleeding light, No gods were seen, from Christ to Juno, But there still linger to this day, The words of Giordano Bruno “Perhaps you, my judges, pronounce this sentence against me with greater fear then I receive it”

gene16180

My muse can be unseemly and nomadic although she fancies meter and good rhyme, her diligence and output are sporadic, and some may say she’s moving past her prime. At times she’s off consorting with the sages reflecting on existence, as it were, At...

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