Have your steps brought you home, brother?
Have you seen again
The silent tomb of our father
The divine shade of our mother
Have you heard her whispered pad
Under the rotting beams
Of once elegant archways
Gardens reclaimed by earth
And stone subsumed by vine
The fields of men who lie
In stupor, taking succor
From ashes
Unaware they have wasted
To mere impressions
Crumbling mosaics and the
Silent banners
Of long-faded triumphs
Lacrimae mundi
The world has grown old
And its tears no longer deluge
In youthful torrents
But crawl in procession
Stately and resigned
As the glory is gone
It fled while we watched
With crossed arms
Proud and haughty, stares upon our features
And you and I, brother, will never be gods