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.
[...] Read more
poem by Terry O'Leary
Added by Poetry Lover
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