The final cries of burning kings
Ceased way before dawn
And as the sun came up slowly
The dew was already cooling their cinders
The bookends held a space that grew between them
Year by year
Filled up only with the shadows
Of the tomes now disappeared
Kisses fell from storm clouds
Like snowflakes lighter than the wind
And like the touch of death's chilled pinkie
Stung the skin of lovers
Aspic and vinegar, thyme and wort
bubbled in the pots of sorcerers
Just stepped out to promenade
And seek the glances of chaste ladies
Steam trains whistled their last
In some defiant final triumph
Rolled down tracks to sidings
Unmarked by tombstones
Chef and proprietor, lost in the smells
Of a rival's banquet for the royals
With absent-minded fingers shredded
The place marking bearing his indelicate snubbing
And the music still played,
seasons changing
And the people still went through
their daily day-to-day
And the animals were slaughtered,
meat gnawed off the bone
And the whispered sweet-nothing
still raised temperatures
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