“Dry bones can harm no one”— So sang the voice from Wasteland’s shore, But I have walked the killing fields And know the lie that silence bore.
The bones do speak, though long decayed, Unearthed by hands not theirs to claim, Given tongues by zealot priests Who mouth their prayers and speak their shame.
In Kosovo’s fields, in Gaza’s dust, In Armenia’s buried grief, Across the sands of Erbil’s night, The dead are stirred—not for relief.
They rise not in their own defense, They rise to justify the blade, Embroidered with fresh fable-cloth, With memories half-new, half-made.
The Promised Land is paved with skulls That never sought a throne or crown. The gospel of the grave is preached In voices never theirs to claim.
The soul-stained call them forth once more— These ventriloquists of vengeance Make calcium speak of causes The buried never chose to bless.
They cry for peace, yet hear their names Proclaimed to summon death, not justice. Their marrow plundered, their repose Defiled while ancient wounds burn bright.
They do not ask to be avenged— No whisper from the tomb requests A mother’s tears be matched by some New covenant of blood and fire.
Until we bury not just bone But pride and myth and righteous sword, The dead shall march in vengeful script To scrawl our creeds in sacred dust.
Dry bones should harm no one— Yet see how we conscript the dust, Make weapons of our ancestors, And brand our vengeance just.
The Tyranny of Polymathy and the Silence of Wisdom
Among the scattered remains of Heraclitus’ thought, few sayings possess the enduring sharpness of this brief maxim: πολυμαθίη νόον οὐ διδάσκει — “much learning does not teach understanding” (Fragment XVIII, in The Art and Thought of Heraclitus, ed. Charles H. Kahn, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979, pp. 36–37). In a world increasingly captivated by the accumulation of knowledge, this ancient fragment persists as both a critique and a corrective.
Heraclitus of Ephesus, known to later generations as “the Obscure,” was not hostile to knowledge itself, but to its superficial accumulation. He reserved his sharpest disdain for those who amassed facts while remaining blind to deeper unity—figures such as Hesiod, Pythagoras, Xenophanes, and other fellow polymaths. To Heraclitus, the decisive mark of wisdom was not volume but depth, not possession of facts but recognition of λόγος (logos), the underlying order binding the manifold into one.
At the heart of his saying is the contrast between πολυμαθίη (polymathy, or the gathering of knowledge) and νόος (intelligence, intuitive understanding). Polymathy is acquisitive; it accumulates and catalogs. It may grow in quantity, but seldom in quality. Νόος, in Heraclitus’ conception, is penetrative—it cuts through the clutter, grasping the essential, perceiving the harmony hidden beneath the flux of appearances.
Modern Echoes: Information Without Insight
Heraclitus’ critique resonates acutely within the modern world. Never has humanity enjoyed such unrestricted access to knowledge. Vast databases, rapid transmission of ideas, and instantaneous retrieval of information define our age. Yet the paradox deepens: the world grows correspondingly impoverished in intelligence and understanding.
Data is abundant, but coherence is rare. Scholarly disciplines multiply, but their mutual intelligibility diminishes. Algorithms accumulate citations while human insight often withers beneath the sheer weight of accumulated text. Heraclitus reminds us that the mere collection of knowledge is not a pathway to wisdom; the two may diverge as sharply as night from day.
Heraclitus and the Machine Mind
This divergence is nowhere more manifest than in the emergence of artificial intelligence. Large language models, trained on incomprehensible expanses of text, generate fluent prose, plausible argumentation, and stylistic mimicry. They are polymathy mechanized: vast collectors, elegant rephrasers, yet fundamentally lacking in νόος.
Heraclitus would have recognized this phenomenon at once, for the problem is not the breadth of data but the absence of soul. In another pointed maxim, he declared: κακοὶ μάρτυρες ἀνθρώποισιν ὀφθαλμοὶ καὶ ὦτα, βαρβάρους ψυχὰς ἐχόντων —“eyes and ears are bad witnesses for men who have barbarian souls” (Fragment XVI, Kahn, pp. 34–35). It is not merely that the senses deceive, but that without a cultivated and receptive soul, sensory data remains inert, misapprehended, or altogether meaningless.
Machines “see” through vast datasets, “hear” through colossal corpora, but possess no ψυχή (soul), only a barbarian mimicry. Their testimony is immense but alien, their utterances fluent but soulless, incapable of partaking in the λόγος (logos) that Heraclitus saw as the ordering principle of reality. They traffic in appearances without substance, in signals without understanding.
Such systems compound the crisis by making superficial synthesis effortless, further displacing the contemplative labor essential to the cultivation of νόος. The true danger is not that machines think, but that they make it easier for humans to avoid thinking. The peril lies not in the tool itself, but in our eagerness to mistake mimicry for wisdom—to enthrone fluent appearance where only reflective engagement yields genuine understanding.
Conclusion: The Call to Stillness
Heraclitus, who spoke of the river that flows yet remains the same, calls us back to what is most essential: not the accumulation of voices, but the discernment of harmony; not endless learning, but the cultivation of understanding. His words remind us: the vessel may be filled to overflowing, yet remain empty of wisdom.
Against the relentless deluge of data, against the mechanical polymathy of our age, Heraclitus directs us to the deeper current. True understanding arises in the stillness where νόος awakens and the λόγος reveals its hidden thread. To cultivate νόος demands not accumulation but attention: the examined life, sustained reflection, and the pursuit of insight rather than quantity. The wisdom of Heraclitus remains as vital today as when it was first set down in fragments.
Source for Heraclitus: Charles H. Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979).
Every morning of late, when I step outside and survey my small parcel of earth around the sixth hour, I am greeted by a quiet republic. The lawn, though tamed in patches, has yielded here and there to flourishing clover, and amidst this gentle sprawl, the early risers—the rabbits—make their appearance. They bound lightly through their meadow-realm, untroubled by the weight of human concerns.
The poem which follows is inspired by the above and a line from my recent poem, Summer’s Surest Guide, in which I reflected on a single lightning bug, bowing a blade of grass beneath its small, radiant body. In that poem, in particular, I spoke of standing barefoot in the Republic of Clover, declaring allegiance to the unnoticed—those quiet, living moments that affirm our being.
This latest poem expands on that idea—an ode to the small republic I witness each day in my own backyard.
A Rabbit in the Republic of Clover in Cleveland, Ohio. Photograph by the Author, 2025
Ode to the Republic of Clover
By Donald S. Yarab
I. Beneath the sober sky of men and their grim affairs lies the Republic of Clover, unconquered, unperturbed, a verdant sovereignty where no flag flies, yet freedom dances on every stem.
II. Here, the rabbits are princes of lightness, bounding with the grace of unspoken decrees, their courts held in morning silence, their triumphs measured by joy alone.
III. I walk, barefoot, unadorned, an uninvited guest granted quiet citizenship, each step sinking into softness, each toe anointed by dew, by life untroubled by task or time.
IV. The bees, those solemn emissaries, chart invisible paths from bloom to bloom, carrying the golden commerce of summer with no need for treaties, no hunger for dominion, only the rhythm of the sun and the pull of sweet fragrance.
V. And overhead, the butterflies perform their gentle ballet, wings painted in festival colors, gliding upon invisible currents, while from time to time, robins, wrens, and cheerful chickadees descend from their sky-gabled realms to rest upon these humble fields, chirruping briefly, then flitting on, light as thoughts untroubled.
VI. And in these small republics, stitched together in fields, in backyards, at the edge of forgotten lanes, the world smiles again—not in the grandiloquence of monuments, but in the humble confederacy of clover, where joy is law, laughter the unspoken anthem, and every footstep is a vote for wonder.
VII. Blessed be the clover, green banner of quiet gladness; blessed be the rabbits, fleet couriers of delight; blessed be the bees, artisans of golden abundance; blessed be the butterflies, dancers in the cathedral air; blessed be the birds, brief pilgrims of feathered grace. And blessed be the bare foot, the open palm, the unguarded heart— for in this gentle republic, joy requires no conquest, only presence, and the simple, smiling gift of being.
“Here I am, an old man in a dry month, / Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.” —T.S. Eliot, Gerontion
“Enigmas never age, have you noticed that” —Donald Trump, in a 50th birthday greeting to Jeffrey Epstein, as reported by the Wall Street Journal, July 17, 2025
The Great Day of His Wrath by John Martin, 1853, oil painting on canvas.
Not with a whimper but with judgment— the hollow men are laid bare. Between the shadow and the substance falls the weight of what they’ve done.
April reaps the harvest of unburied sins, memory and justice tally their dues in the counting house of broken promises. The rats abandon ship; the reckoning arrives through cracks in gilded towers.
We are not hollow, not stuffed with lies— we are the thunder that shakes foundations, the rain that scours the ledger clean, the voice that names the unnamed.
In this valley of false prophets their empires crumble while truth endures, and when the smoke clears, we remain— the witnesses in the empty boardroom, the light that penetrates the shadow.
The desert remembers. The wasteland testifies. And those who thought themselves untouchable now face the music of their making: Here. Here is the bill.
Between the crime and the punishment falls not silence, but the sound of debts returning to their debtors— inevitable, unrelenting, just.
In the room the power brokers scheme and plot, but tonight the doors are locked and the receipts read aloud.
This is the way the world ends— not with their bang, but with our thunder— the final indictment.
Tom Homan, Trump Border Czar, Fox News, July 2025: “People need to understand, ICE officers and Border Patrol don’t need probable cause to walk up to somebody, briefly detain them, and question them. They just go through the observations, get articulable facts based on their location, their occupation, their physical appearance, their actions.”
U.S. federal agents stand guard while blocking a road leading to an agricultural facility where U.S. federal agents and immigration officers carried out an operation, in Camarillo, California, U.S., July 10, 2025
Scene 1: The Raid
The pre-dawn silence of a Central Valley farm is shattered by the low rumble of diesel engines. Unmarked ICE vehicles crawl down the dusty access road. A sudden flash of tactical lights. Barked orders. The field erupts in chaos.
Workers scatter like startled birds through rows of lettuce and beans. Shadows flit beneath the irrigation lines. A woman screams. A man falls.
The first canister arcs through the air, trailing white smoke. Then another. The acrid burn of tear gas mingles with the scent of overturned earth. Workers stumble, eyes streaming, choking on chemicals and fear.
Hector, broad-shouldered, quiet, sees only one thing: his son, Mateo, crouching near the equipment shed, toy truck forgotten in the dirt. Hector runs—faster than he has in years—dodging crates and shouting agents, lungs searing. A crushed weed clings to the cuff of his pants as he runs. He reaches the boy and pulls him close. They crouch behind a rusting disc harrow, trembling, Mateo’s small hands pressed to his eyes.
In desperation, Hector begins to pray aloud in Spanish through the burning air.
“Jesús, protégeme. Ten piedad de mi hijo.”
Out of the chemical haze, a figure approaches—not running, not afraid. A man in simple linen, worn sandals, dark hair, and a weathered face. His eyes are kind, though tears stream down his cheeks from the gas. He kneels beside them, placing one hand on Hector’s shoulder and the other gently on Mateo’s head.
He begins to pray—not in Spanish or English, but in the cadence of scripture:
“I was hungry and you gave me food… I was thirsty and you gave me drink… I was a stranger, and you did not welcome me.”
The sounds of boots crunching dirt grow louder. ICE agents round the corner through the dissipating smoke, rifles raised, armor clanking, gas masks covering their faces. They see three brown-skinned figures huddled together.
One agent hesitates. “Wait… who is—?”
Another cuts him off, voice muffled behind his mask. “Doesn’t matter. They match the profile. Bag ’em.”
The agents swarm. Zip ties bite into wrists. Mateo cries out as he’s yanked from his father, still coughing from the gas. Hector shouts in panic. The stranger offers no resistance—his gaze full of grief, not fear.
“Do not be afraid,” he says softly. “They do not know what they do.”
The agents drag them toward the transport van. No one asks the stranger his name.
Scene 2: The Hearing
A windowless immigration courtroom, sterile and indifferent. A fluorescent hum fills the air. The docket reads:
“JESUS — No Last Name.”
The defendant sits at the table, still wearing the dirt-stained robe from the fields. His feet are bare.
The judge, gray-suited and impatient, flips through forms without lifting his eyes.
“Do you have documentation establishing your legal presence in the United States?”
Jesus replies, softly:
“I have roots in this land older than maps. I have walked its fields and wept at its borders. I have come for the least among you.”
The judge sighs. “This court does not recognize mythology, metaphor, or messianic claims. Do you have a valid visa or asylum paperwork?”
“I was here before paperwork.”
The interpreter glances up but says nothing.
The judge shrugs, jots a note, and speaks without emotion:
“Absent documentation, this court orders your removal from the United States.”
He pounds the gavel. The sound echoes like a tomb closing.
The bailiff calls out the next name:
“González, Maria.”
Scene 3: Alligator Alcatraz
Deep in the Florida Everglades, forty-five miles from Miami, an airstrip rises from the swamp. Chain-link fences topped with razor wire stretch across the tarmac. Guard towers pierce the humid air. Beyond the perimeter, dark water reflects nothing—cypress knees and saw grass disappearing into mist where alligator eyes glide silent as death.
The official name is Dade-Collier Training and Transition Airport. Everyone calls it Alligator Alcatraz.
Inside the compound, heavy-duty tents and FEMA trailers house thousands. The hum of industrial air conditioning battles the crushing heat, never quite winning. Mosquitoes cloud the recreation yard. In the distance, something splashes in the canal—too large to be a fish.
Jesus sits on a metal cot, sharing his meal with a trembling boy whose parents were deported separately. He tends to an old woman’s infected foot with water and torn fabric. Around him, the detained speak in whispers—some have been here days, others weeks. No one knows when the final expulsion orders will come.
A guard leans against the fence, sweating despite the cooling units. “That one thinks he’s some kind of prophet,” he tells his partner, nodding toward Jesus.
The other shrugs. “Least he’s peaceful. Better than the ones who try to run.” He glances toward the swamp. “Though where would they go?”
That evening, Jesus stands at the perimeter fence, fingers resting on the chain link. Through the mesh, he watches the sun set over an endless maze of waterways and predators. Behind him, someone begins humming a half-remembered hymn. Others join in—Mexican ballads, Salvadoran lullabies, the songs of home, sung low through clenched hope.
Mateo sits nearby, no longer crying, but hollow-eyed. He stares at the fence, at the razor wire, at the guard towers with their searchlights that never sleep.
“He came to his own, and his own received him not.”
In a crack between concrete slabs, where a drainage pipe meets the ground, a single green shoot pushes through. Impossibly small. Impossibly resilient. The guards walk past it twice a day and never see it.
Jesus kneels and touches the tiny leaf with one finger.
He whispers something no one hears—a prayer, a promise, a word riding the night wind across the water, past the alligators and the pythons, past the razor wire and the searchlights, out into the vast American darkness where other hearts are breaking, other prayers ascending.
The detention facility sleeps fitfully in the swamp.
Northcoast Antiquarian 