Palaeologus by the sea,
Sitting by the waters of Time,
Whispering voices in salty air,
A pale windmill in the mist.
For how many centuries have you called across these waters,
Echoing from the black mountains across the Gulf,
Your realm in cool winds,
A breezy darkness unconquered in the obsidian night,
To the west, the red glow of a far off city,
Shining with the aura of millennia.
I saw you in stone walled gardens,
Listening to the voice of stars,
But you lay neglected in the sun,
And crying in the stillness of ancient night,
Now the scent of cinnamon, thyme and cedar drifts past fallen marble,
Smashed like gods grasping for the spark in fractured light.
