Time is the desert. So that gilded mountain,
Caved for the aromatic kings, is barely
Able to be. Their deaths were pure, were lointaine.
And where they are now they had no reason to be.
Time is the river. So those knock-down ruins
Drown in a quick-sand error, columns free
Falling, prone. But often the wall-painted aeons
Linger, in a language flamboyant as a tree.
Time is nowhere or elsewhere. So this statue
Sings in the green field at dawn. But not song:
Rather a sound of striking metal, a virtue
Of stone. The spaced silence of poetry.