Time’s immortal flesh laid bare
In smoking ruins and tattered rock
Layered beneath the current moment, hints of sounds
Echoing a past destroyed
Echoes on stone, on wood, and iron
Echoes in smoke once sacred, now profane
Echoes of music, devotions, measured footsteps
Echoes of the tears of centuries
blood of craftsmen
dreams of proud men
Burnt to rubble.
Yet those telltales whisper on
And find their kin in my soul,
And in the sound of sun-blessed children’s laughter playing among the ruins.
Copyright ©2015 C. Mitchell