all is laid waste.
not a stone stands upon another.
smokes rise from fires dark.
reeks cling to the hills about the walls' remains.
and god in a yellow sun dress, pressed and stiff,
her girlish sun-specked shoulders bared and browning,
picks sweet pimpernels to keep.
clover sweet and wild she winds into a wreath.
laughing, she drops it at the gates.
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