… that captivate
their many woes
now even time defiles,
Casts anew the figure of a man
flesh and blood cut into morning,
heralds the crossing of the seasons,
as spring invades and rampant sun
purges the last damp dark corners
a winter seeks in its trauma of
retreating cloud.
The wars that wore this place
to crumbling stone
brute elements now torment;
The shrieking rains a winter
scorches to its summers that sear;
and wound this place with its past.
And us …?
What of we who seek
some order to things
in the flaming Arab consonants
the risen sun picks out;
where once the castellated gate
held the lands
these crumbling stones now crown?
