I feel War as he was:
soothing bloodlust with cunning
of the tricksters, with the calm
of a savage. His heart is windless,
stirring only when a bird shrieks,
when the pitiless sun burns,
harsher than flint.
He is treacherous, travelling
underground, but oh,
lovely to see his labyrinths,
to reach the crown of his fort
and gaze below.
These bricks have known
a bloody sun.
I know him as he is now:
rotting in the high walls of Time,
soundless, stale, secreted away
by piping bats, who echo night
with hands of wings.
These grasses have known
a history gone.
I see him, as he will be:
overrun by dry wilderness
and yellowing jungle, and alone,
a bridge gently folding into a moat
of moss and water.
He will strew stones on the floor,
like snow in summer, lull trees
to sleep in front of the doors,
and close the gates.
These walls have known
a silence of drums.
in his fortress of wrecked stone,
lying above the hill of the gods:
bloodied, but unbowed.