Monuments to the living

I wended my way

along a path-

in what place and time I do not know.

At once the boulevards of Roman glory

then rutted roads, turned to

slop in monsoon rains.

 

The trees burgeoning

a hundred million buds bursting forth

in thunderous applause.

The trees waving, radiant

in the summer solstice sun

The trees, grown cold

as time vitrifies their bark

and all that remains are

monuments to the living.

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