How? Growling down into the gravel
of a rough dream that dragged the
lids off coffins, he stopped
at the grave of Osimandeus. Or
was it Alexander? Yes, Alexander.
But the single howling question…
shaking the quiet lichen from its
settling place. He stood before the end
once more, saw the last hope die and him,
not given to poetry or nonsense, wanting
to sing a lament a troubadour may have sung
to a lady far from butchery and defeat.