How many turn back toward dreams and magic, how many br children br Run home to Mother Church, Father State, br To find in their arms the delicious warmth and folding of souls. br The age weakens and settles home toward old ways. br An age of renascent faith: Christ said, Marx wrote, Hitler says, br And though it seems absurd we believe. br Sad children, yes. It is lonely to be adult, you need a father. br With a little practice you'll believe anything. br br Faith returns, beautiful, terrible, ridiculous, br And men are willing to die and kill for their faith. br Soon come the wars of religion; centuries have passed br Since the air so trembled with intense faith and hatred. br Soon, perhaps, whoever wants to live harmlessly br Must find a cave in the mountain or build a cell br Of the red desert rock under dry junipers, br And avoid men, live with more kindly wolves br And luckier ravens, waiting for the end of the age. br br Hermit from stone cell br Gazing with great stunned eyes, br What extravagant miracle br Has amazed them with light, br What visions, what crazy glory, what wings? br I see the sun set and rise br And the beautiful desert sand br And the stars at night, br The incredible magnificence of things. br I the last living man br That sees the real earth and skies, br Actual life and real death. br The others are all prophets and believers br Delirious with fevers of faith.