By Pavel Chichikov
The city had been great, but battered, worn
I'd seen that from the air and understood
That something in its destiny was wrong
Now much worse, in fact, from where I stood
I saw in long perspectives rising smoke
The glowing hoods of flames that brushed low clouds
And turned them red – then my companion spoke –
‘Can't you hear it whimpering aloud?'
‘'The rubble of a city?' ‘Citizens,
The human flesh that makes a city live
Is suffering, and I can hear it groan
Above the grit and soughing of the winds'
He walked away, I followed, but he glanced
At me and warned me with a glare,
Threw up one hand and motioned me to stop –
‘Better to be separate – go there'
He jabbed his thumb behind him, then he stalked
Away with angry strides, left me
Dumbfounded, till he disappeared, then I
Spun on my heel – and as had he, I walked
From there, and found a lengthy boulevard,
Walked what seemed to be about two hours
It must have been perhaps ten thousand yards –
A little less in meters, by my guess
Debris and towers leaning, burning walls
Streets constricted by the fall of those
And people in the middle of the street
More and more of them, in dirty clothes
I saw a scared defeated populace
No fight, defiant rage or toughness showed
And then as though the mobs had coalesced
Crowds forming, bunching up in nodes
And over all a lid of fearful menace
Not so much a vision but a spirit
And something pressing down, a morbid weight,
Unbearable, a pressure on the heart
The Shoulder of the Sun Part Nine will be featured tomorrow.
To visit Pavel Chichikov's website click *here*
