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Have your steps brought you home, brother?

Have you seen again

The silent tomb of our father

The divine shade of our mother

Have you heard her whispered pad

Under the rotting beams

Of once elegant archways

Gardens reclaimed by earth

And stone subsumed by vine

The fields of men who lie

In stupor, taking succor

From ashes

Unaware they have wasted

To mere impressions

Crumbling mosaics and the

Silent banners

Of long-faded triumphs

Lacrimae mundi

The world has grown old

And its tears no longer deluge

In youthful torrents

But crawl in procession

Stately and resigned

As the glory is gone

It fled while we watched

With crossed arms

Proud and haughty, stares upon our features

And you and I, brother, will never be gods.