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.
Unspoken Politics 