A HOWL FOR THE SEEKERS OF TRUTH (after Ginsberg)

I saw the greatest minds of our time—Gödel, Nietzsche, Socrates—
locked in cosmic debate in the neon-lit void of the abstract,
their words like equations burning through the fabric of reason,
their voices howling against the silence of the universe,
who paced and raged and tore at the chains of their own systems,
who sought truth like miners in the dark shafts of the mind,
who clawed at the walls of logic, of language, of being itself—

Gödel! Pale prophet of numbers, scribe of the unspeakable,
who proved that even the purest system bleeds with incompleteness,
who stared into the abyss of arithmetic and saw God’s shadow,
who whispered to Plato’s ghost: There are truths we cannot prove,
but still they wait, luminous, in the cathedral of the absolute—

Nietzsche! Mad Dionysus, hammer in hand,
who laughed at the chains of morality, who shattered the tablets,
who screamed: There is no truth! Only the will to power!
who danced on the grave of God and spat on the altars of reason,
who forged his own meaning in the furnace of chaos,
who knew the abyss gazes back—and winked—

Socrates! Wily old gadfly, street-corner sage,
who drank the hemlock and called it wisdom,
who questioned until the foundations trembled,
who knew truth was not a thing to hold but a fire to kindle,
who walked the marketplace of ideas, barefoot and relentless,
prodding the sleepers: What is good? What is just? What is real?

And I saw them, these titans, wrestling in the void,
Gödel with his theorems like unbreakable chains,
Nietzsche with his hammer like a bomb in the temple of certainty,
Socrates with his questions like a virus in the veins of dogma—
each a saint, a heretic, a martyr to the hunt—

Truth! Molten and shifting, slipping through their fingers,
now a rigid equation, now a shattered mirror,
now a question that births a thousand more—
they howled at it, cursed it, loved it, bled for it—

And the cosmos roared back: There is no final answer!
Only the seeking, the screaming, the never-ending why,
only the mad dance of minds in the dark,
only the beautiful, terrible hunger—

O seekers! O fools! O my brothers!
The truth is not a thing to hold—
it is the fire that burns your hands as you clutch it,
it is the abyss that laughs as you name it,
it is the question that outlives the answer—

Keep howling.