Classic Poem

Wait. This seems to be the kind of place
where I could lose myself in a trance ...
the ruins of a palace fallen in the sand ...
its heights have come in search of
its foundations ...

Stunned, I gaze around
and ask the present about its past.
Did life really flow here?
Did eyelids close on happy times
and nightingales sing good fortune?
Did Fate decree its destiny and doom?
Shall I question the dumb rock
about those who carved it?
Can I summon up spectres from the grave?
The hooves of Time's dispersing horses
tell the sad destiny of this place:
here thorns are suckling at its breast
and there owls perch hooting atop it;
frightened spiders strain to free themselves
from the prison of its cobwebs.
The Hand of Destruction, sated with it,
fears the harm its touch might spread.

Here, Illusion shatters his own phantoms
and Death in desperation kills himself.