The Golden Age

The Golden Age

Blessed was that age so long ago

When people willingly placed trust

In fields that never let them down.

No enervating luxury

Prevailed, and appetites were mild

And satisfied by piles of acorns;

Ideas of sweetening wine with honey

Were still unknown, as was the fashion

Of dyeing sheeny silks bright purple.

Soft grass ensured a restful sleep

Smooth-flowing streams were good to drink

And giant pine trees offered shade.

Ships’ oars did not chop up the sea

Since traders did not seek new shores

With their exotic merchandise.

No bugle-blasts of war were heard;

Blood spilled through bitter enmities

Had yet to stain the stubbly fields-

Why bother to provoke a fight

When gruesome wounds brought no reward?

If only people nowadays

Would embrace the ways of yesteryear!

But now the coals of avarice

Glow more intense than Etna’s fire.

So curse whoever first unearthed

Such lethal treasures: gold-veined rocks

And gems that longed to stay untouched.

-boethius