O when shall they be heeded?
Two souls standing,
One hunched sans sorrow,
The other him supporting,
Though slender himself he is,
Stands resilient and resolute.

O when shall they be heard?
Two men crying,
With calls so eloquent,
Cutting consciences deep
With images of sigh and salience,
Resonating with fullest of alacrity.

O what shall they hearken?
One voice full of brisk and years,
Brimming with sapience and blood,
Accounts of death absent of life,
With blood blotted not backward,
Binding life within belief of a death.

O have their hearts already hardened,
To the voice of youthful vigor,
In complement to his elder,
Decreeing virtue and victory,
In envy of none other than
Verisimilitude itself?

O what shall they hearken?
Though humanity’s cure they proclaim,
Two cease not to concede,
Continuing to convert and persevere,
By crowish night or crystal day,
Until the coming of their elder cousin.

O when shall they be heard?
Belated will it have been
When joined by other bound brothers:
Books of vestige, books ab aeterno
By life, by remembrance, and by death
For final arbitration to them is brought.

O when shall they be heeded?
For he the elder shall take seat,
And the junior halt his homage,
Only to witness the regenesis
Of siblings myriads uncountable,
For then shall they themselves hear and heed.