Behold this great city; Its rivers run dry
And the concentric shadows of the towers
Fall on sterile streets.
Its citizens, immersed in their lofts,
Flash signals to the sun,
Each receiving its response.
They watch it revolve around the towers,
Relaying their messages.
All are at the center of its revolutions.
From their citadels they look down
On the shadows
And pray for mirrors,
Dedicating themselves daily anew.
The wind raps hollowly
At the base
Of the minarets,
Falling on the deaf ears in the keep.
Outside of the towers’ gaze
Lies a plain,
Neglected by the denizens;
A disinfected waste
Where our dreams went to die.
Its fields,
long ago desiccated,
Have their parched dust carried listlessly
Through the dry grass,
Overgrown at the base of the towers,
Under the sun’s bloody gaze.
And when that sun sets on this great city
It drowns,
Immersed in the moon’s blunted pallidity
Until the fire rises
To immolate the towers once again.
