I gazed with rapt attention at
the object borne to me alas
by fortuity or fate.
Boundless bourns, wherein constraints
of time did not pertain,
becalmed all force of will within
enchantments cast unknown therein
by lands in sandy waves.
The souls of all who passed before
the turning of this place of yore
from fertileness to waste,
whispered ever nigh across,
and through the weathered hulks of lost
kingdoms in their wake.
One last fortress remained therein
to guard this realm, beset within
by the strifes of ancient folk.
One last bastion yet unchecked
by the turning tides of fate to rest
in lonesome solitude.
The storms that swept across these lands
in days of old, where bells foretold
of prophecies to come and pass,
filled the depths of leafless gutters
and empty streets with arid sands.
Within the age portending such,
where heedless hearts began to clutch
the tempests yet unwoven,
dwelt miracles in gilded halls.
Dreams in waking, never failing
to leave their charges thus enthralled.
These raptures however, in the turning,
could not stand the ever swirling
mists of time, and fearing such,
fled to armored keeps instead;
to be forgotten, one by one,
till all had been undone.
Only the whispering sands can now be heard,
whenever stirred by the restless wind’s caress;
as only the rumble of ancient works
can still be felt, disconcerting from nighted halls,
where great machines run on and on
far beneath the earth.
Could I divine the ages hence,
and beholding fate, determine whence
that time may come again,
I would comply for peace of mind,
though galaxies may rise and fall
and twilight may descend.
(Bryan Garaventa, 2003)