The soldiers tromp
Brick, shards
Matter shattered
And then dried like leaves --
The shaking down of temples,
Trees.
The marble of Romans
Is a diaspora bomb.
In the sylvan distance
GBUs thump like wine-skins
And the Syrian dancing girls
Are all wetted now
By weird rains.
The region
Stays filled with legions
While the emperor resumes drink.
And on the flag-stones
Of the thoroughfares
Sandals are whitened
By dust.
- Finn Harvor
[first appeared, Former People, 2014]
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