Here in a place of Gods
without worship
stones without mortar and
graves stripped of souls

a tourist silence hangs itself
web-like
from each jagged edge
air clings with stale memories

to each niche of ancient art
river swirls on naked eye
suns are born and moons consumed
by dark

the dead have abandoned their graves

ashes to dust
they are blown by an aimless wind
distant from the tombs of men
without prayer without names

From DAWN AT MIDNIGHT by Steve Downes

http://www.amazon.com/Dawn-Midnight-S...