Red are the walls at sunset,
yellow is the middle of the day.
Quiet is the sum of centuries,
whispers thin as dry night air
are all that is left of the kingdom.
Arches vanish into arches,
keyholes swallow keys,
the name of god here never ends,
stranding poets and thieves.
Light and shade were wed here,
true for a thousand years,
practicing stillness and grace.
In not moving they are one,
sharing curve and place,
and the name, that aching name,
loaned for souls to chisel,
by the iron in the sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment