holy beauty lies beneath
the rubbled stone of gilded breech
yet passers by and walkers to
know nothing save the dusty rue
so damn they rocks in staggered pleat
those strewn of war which bruise their feet
and hasten on from crowns of gold
to harsh regret in days of old
‘till boy and boy then some more
play daftly on the chancy floor
will fall and scrape and bend the knee
and find the treasure buried ‘neath
and days of old will be their time
to oft’ recount this story rhyme
“we saw beneath!” will be their say
and have the treasure to this day
Like Walking Trees 