With a gentle nod to C.P. Cavafy

Do I yet await the Barbarians,
sitting by your the gates in such fine array?
Half-held hopes are but fleeting talismans
against this judgement of the final day.
Are the trumpets now sounding the alarm?
(cast a glance to see if they are come!)
No defences can shield ourselves from harm.
(Can you see their dust? Do you hear their drum?)

If only Conscience had beaten and flayed
this Vanity that all but smothers guilt.
Past-inflicted wounds the mind barricades
are as disowned dreams, buried to the hilt.

No Barbarians came; they never will?
It’s a waiting game. I am waiting still.