The Temple of Lysistrata

The Temple of Lysistrata

In the jeweled waters of the Indian
Our long-forgotten world slumbers
In peaceful reticence, as it has
Since the year of our archaic fall.
Our dwellings have vanished,
Each wall eroded by the salted air
And pilfered by the compliant subjects of time.

Anon oh our Cerulean Princess and her earthen mate
Are the only two that remain
With ocular instruments immune to the canon;
And so they remember our being, our presence,
Oh yes, they remember it well.

Moons traveled fast then,
Much like they do now,
For I saw them recede under the aqueous cloak
And return bathed and pale
So to be innumerable
And allied against us.

Alas, they have not yet won the battle;
There is a matter I cannot fail to mention:
Our most beloved,
Our sanctuary so pious,
Our well of glory
Is the Temple of Lysistrata
And it stands yet still.

The once-magnificent trimmings contest each gale,
The sun-burnt roof threatens to cascade,
And the walls pose half-engulfed by the ravenous bank of sand.
It was built by our hands and pervaded by our spirit,
But beyond those visible facts
It sits unrecognizable to us now.

I often come and wander this stretch
And settle easily in the dimension between air and sand
Within this mammoth monument of my people
Just to wonder at it all.
And with this I realize that you are the fortunate,
For you are witness to the only proof we have
That on occasion
The destruction
can be more beautiful
Than the original ever was.