The alabastrine bones have long since forgotten what forms
Words. They sit, while
a patient sun fissures and fragments.
One day they will fold into the champagne sand, and the whistling
wind will carry their story to other silent corners of the Earth.
It is unlikely that this site will ever sport
an immense granite cenotaph with engraved names. trying to keep a
scrap of memory alive. All would rather forget, and in time, they will.
Unspoken Politics 