On the ruins of the ruins
cakes of cosmic dust amassed,
spawned a city pounded pretty,
with its footings on its past.
Curbstones and walls, echo footfalls
centuries silenced and mossed.
Balconies spy each passerby,
for silhouettes centuries lost.
The cobble peal resounding zeal
at the iron-clad clatter of hooves,
recalling when all of the men rode,
rattling windows and roofs.
Night emptied street lacking concrete,
bounces each voice thousand fold.
Every voice heard, foreign
or slurred Castilian or Chiché of old.
An orphan theme, the remnants scream
for parents lamentably missing.
And ever meekly offered cheek we
are misrepresentably kissing.
- John Whitehead