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The Burnt House

A whitened bone
Leans on the balustrade of history
With the Roman spear nearby.
Jars of ceramic, blackened by the fire
That tore up the Temple walls
And destroyed the hegemony of a people.
The start of a spiral dispersing through the history books.
Pages leaf, scarlet and black thrust their hands forward,
Mists shroud the missing stones,
Powdery dusts cover footsteps long silent.

We remain awhile,
Peer through the beams of time.
Ghosts slip off our clothes as we climb the stairs
To daylight


Ezra Ben-Meir, History:   #252, December, 1984.
©- This poem, with acknowledgment as to source,  may be used for non-commercial purposes. 

Contact me for comments or printing at, ezrabm@gmail.com 

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