See the tumbling dust aeolian
Caught in a shaft of the high window
Hear the footfalls that echo
Across the hall
The wide handled balustrade
The chairs that stretch broad across the walls.
The residents flit about the coiling light
Scurry under doors
The empty space of silent night
Etched by a rustle on the floor.
These palaces
Shuttered with the fountains running
Stuttering with ruined walls
Butlered, polished and foresaken
A far cry from anguished calls.
We know the tent camps are numbered
Crowded in a click on busy screens
And that water drops on a marble floor
In a sumptuous space unseen.
Did it make a sound? Or prove another law
If no one saw the hand that made
The key turn in the door?
The palaces are locked while people starve
We have seen this all, before.
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