In forests and the foundry,
Downtown and in
The grotto
Have I seen it and
It glows, shines
With a ruby light.
I see the beauty and I
See it through the eyes
Of the last Mayan, watching
His hometown burn. It
Is the beauty of the
Carrier pigeon and of
The dodo. Of
Weed in the park and
Wild music chasing my
Thoughts down the street
As the Band of Man makes
Its last appearance
On the stage of Time.
A beauty the child
Cries for by the side
Of her slain mother.
Now there's no other to
Take our hand as a
Feeble night enfolds
Our stone cold bones.
You ask of beauty, but
What can your stone
Eyes see? Except, mayhap,
The dim memory of a once
Never to be seen again?
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