The victorious army marches into the city,
& not far behind tarries a throng of women
Who slept with the enemy on the edge
Of battlemnets. The stunned morning
Opens into a dust cloud of hooves
& drums. Some new priests cradle
Stone tablets, & others are poised
With raised mallets in a forest of defeated
Statuary. Of course, behind them
Linger the turncoats & pious
Merchants of lime. What’s Greek
Is forged into Roman; what’s Roman
Is hammered into a ceremony of birds
Headed east. Whatever is marble
Burns in the lime kilns because
Someone dreams of a domed bathhouse.
Lime by Yusef Komunyakaa (Thank you, Wendell, for the book of his poems.)
Happy Sunday.
Philip Glass: Concerto For Violin And Orchestra
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