It collapsed, bricks, dust, timber and slate,
to a shapeless form of a previous life not yet begun;
the azure stubborn continues to bathe the ruins
in a disrespectful shower of golden daggers.
Living roots too attack from all fronts, unforgiving,
to reconquer a space not quickly enough fertilized;
fungus of jolly hats brown, and spotted whites
welcome the newborns of the butterflies and slimy slugs.
It has fallen, to bury in a deep grave the last hope
white, pure, made of heavenly flowers and sweet spices,
unseen now, still with death, cooling to the icy waters
below, between the burn of the fiery wounds
and the immoveable seizure of the bluish crystals;
the tomb large for a million, may yet be vanquished
when the hand from above brings the celestial clouds
to repel the deadly blades, and create the cozy womb.
The throne under fall tonalities must not remain ghostly;
winter may not yet toll the bells of the kind hearted,
for it is too soon, for it must live again to soothe the one
who on the bench awaits, to appear upon a mere call.
On the desolated amalgam of an ancient dynasty,
the Kingdom will be built, the palace secret invincible
as hope rises, his name whispered through the fibers;
two on the bench of eternity will sit, one at last under the tree.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University, Rome, Georgia.
Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium,
The Chimes, and more than two dozens other magazines.
His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review,
the San Pedro River Review and more than seventy other publications.