In the agora, as a child,
I stood shoulder to shoulder with you.
Moved where the jostling crowd led
regardless of my will.
Now, older than the paved walkways,
I am drawn to the quiet words of Socrates,
tireless in that quest for wisdom.
By the flashes writ large across my sky
often I am startled
but lightening has never struck me.
Against a background of volcanic eruptions,
turbid revolutions in the anthill,
fortunate folk while away a sunset 
over backgammon boards;
awaiting an opportunity, desperate folk 
would take the lush cushions leant on.
It is now as it was then, it's here
as it was there. Are we together again
deriding the longer-lived
who dub themselves powerless?