Upon the hill a temple stands
With high chimneys and glassy flanks
That shine bright white in the mindless Sun.
Within, the priesthood of delay
Acts out its rituals, pauses decay
And tries to check a pale king
Whose grandeur grows with every hour.

Without, and all around abound
Us, we living ghosts, driftwood
Stranded on sand by a bloodless tide
Which might yet rise again –
All bleaching now, heavy with salt.

If there were only children in the street.
If there were only cars that peeped.
If there was only the clod of heavy feet.
But there are no animal sounds.
Just the sigh of cypresses
Blown by the bone dry wind
That forces down to the desert sea.

Image credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/heyeased-n/6457262917/

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