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Silent City

Deserted streets lie draped in dusk and yarns of yesterday,
with silent sounds no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life, abundant once, surceased and slipped away.

Against a sudden sullen burst (unleashing lashing waves
that washed the Silent City clean with radiance that laves) ,
neath soothing suds so soft and mild, the stony structure braves.

Within the walls, whist buildings, tall... outside the City, dunes...
they mime a soon forgotten tale, once written, carved in runes
on broken skies, like halos hung, reflections of the moon's.

Though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise
the City's now a sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews -
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues.

A church's Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below,
and blowing there above the bones, a maiden's blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts and catacombs grace halos still aglow.

Steel chapel chimes! The clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won't writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt -
stray flocks of jute, like downy dregs, adorn the holy font.

With footsteps in the church no more (apostates that profane) ,
the echoes in the nave have gone, though chalice cups remain -
instead of wine, stale liquid drops decaying back to rain.

No face appears with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm -
or pray for mercy, grace, reprieve, or beg lethean balm.

Coiled candle sticks! Their iron claws no longer loom the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid clotting pearls of wax,
since night lit up, and innocence dissolved in deadend tracks.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting once a wisp of light in drops of ebon bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Above! The cage of vapid night reveals a velvet streak,
through which the wicked winter winds will sometimes weave and sneak.
Afar! Some distant cables sway, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

The parapets, unoccupied, with neither voice nor crier,
no cantillation, belfry bells; no Minarets inspire -
abodes and buildings silhouette a mirthless muted choir.

Wan neon lights glow overcast with darkness meant to slate
and lanterns hanging high above, in silent swinging gait,
haunt ballrooms, bars, abandoned now, with no one left to fete.

The skyline, pale, shows no remorse, neath twilight's silver shrouds
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds -
in foggy neap their spirits seep, a clutch of clammy clouds.

The steeple towers, stone and steel, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls ring empty now, though breezes wander by -
but, daring not to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No things appear with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm -
there's only hollow emptiness that shifting shades embalm.

The sun-bleached bones of those who smiled are scattered down the lanes
while other souls who crept in fear left bones with yellow stains.
But plaintive tears were never shed, for no one felt the pains.

The castle clocks unwound and stopped! Their peerless speechless spokes
unfurl in black the reigning Night, by spinning off her cloaks
and flaunting stark oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees went dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play -
now no one minds the voiceless swings or statues made of clay,
though graveyards mute the marbled tombs, where grievers knelt to pray.

The terrors of a conscience fraught, no longer stalk nearby
or rend or rip the curtained clouds, frail fabrics of the sky -
the wraiths of night and sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer creeps beyond the edge of doom's café,
or if she does, in mourning veils, she frills the cabaret
with sallow shades of dripping tears and sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers' fields (where donkeys often brayed)
are lying fallow, barren dust, where living seed once laid
and in the void a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a spade.

A silo, still! With hollow hull, a ravished feather's vane -
with traces of some spattered blood, once flowing through a vein -
with fruits of all the labour, lost... 'twas truly all in vain.

No souls appear with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm -
they vanished quite a while ago, beneath a neutron bomb.

EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City's walls, the victors laugh and play...
They're celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil's sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.

poem by Terry O'Leary
Added by Poetry Lover
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