The dust weeps.
Torrents cannot heal its rending, for
The Curse fingers its way past elements.
All the breathing fight and collapse,
Souls sighing thunder over the state of things.
Grasped pleasures dissolve to cold ash
As time takes and pain shakes
What was only meant for here
And now – in this dismal labor room,
The sweaty, straining City groans loud for
The last re-making.