the thesis,
typed,
was crisp and grand,
a final map for every land.
the dialectic's weary fight
resolved in liberal,
steady light.
he closed the book,
said,
"it is done,"
beneath a sun he thought was one.

but history has no final page,
it writes itself on every age.
it is the moss upon the stone
that outlives empires,
throne by throne.
it is the schism,
not the schism's end,
the stranger who becomes a friend.

the tape recorder,
old and grey,
records what theories file away;
the rust that blooms on iron gates,
the new,
strange fruit that hatred mates,
the algorithm's cold design,
a different,
unforgiving vine.

you saw a finish line,
a peak,
a final answer we might speak.
but life is compost,
dark and deep,
where promises and ruins sleep.
what dies becomes a fertile ground
where unseen futures can be found.

so let your homogeneous state
confront the weather at its gate.
the wind does not read hegel's words,
it herds the clouds like migrant birds.
the seed,
the crack,
the question's spark,
history moves on in the dark.

and to all hegelians,
here is a patch, an update.
try to use, next time,
metacognition,
complexity,
and evolution as
a solid base for your constructions.
topology is a plus.