More tragic still are They Who, yet unborn,
May never be; or Who, once born were not
To ever see what prize Their Birthright bought.
Olympian, Their Blood aflame; yet mourn
They not, for know They not, how They were torn
From out Their Mothers’ Arms while still She fought,
Believing They, with Holy Blood, could naught
But thrive. They know Their Legacy as scorn;
Yet not why They, your legions, chafe to join.
‘Til you, upon Their Mothers’ Throne, decree
And point “This is a god; and this is not.”
Defining ugliness as beauty, point
And sneer “Art thou as beautiful as we?”
But fear to know the answer you have wrought.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 
You do these wrenching ones so well…
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I do enjoy the catharsis of writing them, my dearest love; although at times I imagine I am once again an undergraduate answering all such evil with exuberantly youthful polemic.
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When you were not being the joy of some, you were the terror of other of the professors; that’s for certain, my dearest.
The phrase “A Holy Terror” was coined just for you.
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… as, unfortunately, was the phrase “spinning my wheels,” so coined.
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As I read these over again I am reminded of how proud my father would be of you. As both and artist and an art professor he fought the denigration of the classical arts all his life.
He loved the holy terrors in his classes most of all!
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