_This Dust Was Once the Man,_
this rubble once the memories
of poems and bridges worked by your old hands
summers in their warmth, winters in their freeze.
But the passage of days and darkness
and these simple, penniless, joyless words
obscures the past like silt, and rest
rains cleansing amnesia on the hordes
what important musings writ upon the sand
now washed away by relentless uniform seas,
might have, like celestial fire, grand
results, and among gravestones plant the seeds of trees?
breathing is hard where nothing abodes,
casting a backward glance over travelled roads.
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