The streets
are wet with city trash;
the skies are black with
poisoned air,
and yet she sees the
crashing waves
upon the cliffs of bright
Mohar.
While men wrapped 'round
in colors, bright;
their beards and hair
whipped by the wind
go rushing past in suits
of grey;
for she cannot go back
again.
To
trace the everlasting
road
between what was and what
will be;
to walk the wide, eternal
path
and never know what used
to be.
Forget! she cries; forget
those days
when holy men did mighty
deeds
and heroes fought, and
bards sang tales
while swans slept
peacefully in the reeds.
Behold,
the weary traveler,
the soul who knows where
she has been
and grieves for countries
dead and gone
for she cannot go back
again.
But still the ache lives
in her breast
to touch the knotted
chariot ring
through which the woven
ropes do thread
and keep the horses at
the rein.
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