City of Muses

Of the city, little remains.

Pillars of a temple
broken, some, and others vertically oblivious to climbing vines
that the lymph of seasons has rendered more tireless than all divinities
or maybe simply devoid of fatuous architectonical grandeur
and thus, closer to the sprouts, therefore to immortal tales.

Within the atrium, a river that was sacred and now flows, genuinely holly
as from it drink all the animals and in it drown, because they so choose
all stains of all robes of all men who discard them and all women
naturally wash, to then spread them around the purity of their own nakedness.

Altars, are beds in which the moss slumbers and the heather awakens, if the sun beats upon it
and if the rain still echoes some prayer risen to clouds gone by
a sweet whisper of thirst being quenched is all
that it seeps onto lips parted, where the word, made useless
became mute, and no longer into chalices that tumbled, dry of offers or memories
on the cracked marble of what is now, truly, a divine ground.

And while she sits upon the lightness of breathing solely the wind that lingers
beyond the city which abandon crumbled
she senses, amidst the futile archways of which the whole sky is now the ceiling
found and void antiphons that have been steps
lost, who is to know at which stage of the quest, conceivable, of longings
and more populated lights
that a dense forest of silence
full of trees
enclosed.

(Of the city, therefore, not even the inception of the village
that the corner stone of a poem generated
when for glow, warmth, and faith in the Muses
embers in a clearing
by night the moon, and then the day, birthed always
with star supreme or not
were quite enough…)

© 2005 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*® Authors & Creations