---

Behold this great city; Its rivers run dry

And the concentric shadows of the towers

Fall on sterile streets.

Its citizens, immersed in their lofts,

Flash signals to the sun,

Each receiving its response.

They watch it revolve around the towers,

Relaying their messages.

All are at the center of its revolutions.

From their citadels they look down

On the shadows

And pray for mirrors,

Dedicating themselves daily anew.

The wind raps hollowly

At the base

Of the minarets,

Falling on the deaf ears in the keep.

Outside of the towers’ gaze

Lies a plain,

Neglected by the denizens;

A disinfected waste

Where our dreams went to die.

Its fields,

long ago desiccated,

Have their parched dust carried listlessly

Through the dry grass,

Overgrown at the base of the towers,

Under the sun’s bloody gaze.

And when that sun sets on this great city

It drowns,

Immersed in the moon’s blunted pallidity

Until the fire rises

To immolate the towers once again.