The Outgoing Administration

The gods have eyes the colour of the sky.
They drink from crystal goblets full of cloud.
They laugh and sing a lot, but not aloud,
Since their appeal is mainly to the eye.

Their games become less hectic with the years,
Their wanton cries too feeble to deceive.
The very sight of them seems keen to leave:
It turns to powder like the salt of tears.

The vivid images are growing soft,
The purple robes are ceasing to wear well.
You see the azure through the muscatel
In all those grapes they’ve held so long aloft.

To think our children now will never know
How beautiful those creatures used to be,
How much more confident than you and me!
The reason why we had to let them go.