Did they really go
Those people who came and
On these same sun warmed stones
Shared some shard of themselves without design?
Did they perhaps leave behind
Something less tangible than that self
Lost in the roiling jetsam of humid breath
Astir and brooding over gated cliffs?
Do they now descend upon
The vagrant eddy of passer-bys,
The trailing glance which holds too long
And pries apart the quarried shades underfoot?
In truth, did they once believe
That when these walls they made
Reared, unleashed, and scorned the sky overhead...
Truly, this achieved, did they yet believe
That they could still depart?