The Barrow-Wights

It is a tragedy to me how it is said men love the good,
But when one writes of light, then quick, they turn away.
Boethius said error causes us to seek in stone and wood
The good that only comes from God; and true, that way
Indeed a wandering is. I called it “quick,” but it’s more “dead,” for while
We walk we’re dead, buried wights in living men,
Our treasures gone, and we can’t bear the light. We try to reconcile
Our empty barrows with our empty selves, and plan
How marrow-houses will replace red gold and life and sun.
But even those who own the treasure-blood prefer
A miserable “realism” to the hopeful absent one:
Remember Dante and his books, how Hell disturbs
But people read it more than Paradise. We fallen men in graves
Understand dark nights and think the dawn “to blaeve.”
But wake, immortals, day has come. Red gold awaits; straight paths are paved;
Unquiet spirits, seek the light of life we crave.