A landscape bowed on every side,
Greyish drops fall soft and wide
From the bloodied sky above,
While spiky plants below, with reverence, drink thereof.
Golden rays, like fugitives, pierce the wounds
Of the ashen ground, in silent rounds.
Cypress giants stand cut short, peering down
At small, dead, fragile shells they crown—
Once dwellings of slow, leisurely creatures, now undone.
The olive tree stands Pallas, even dimmed in light,
Gazing steadfast at the shifting sight—
A landscape of the modern human's art,
With which it neighbors, though set apart.
No comments:
Post a Comment