Que reste-t-il

What remains

Of frescoes and lullabies

Of the exalted sweep of the hand That shapes a cloistered world Of blood-drained knights From bearing the sword too long

Of tapestries in leaf

All has been plundered

The scorched lands

Have left starving

The artisans of dream

What remains

Of monuments to gods

Of the pen dipped deep in ink

Writing grief and hope

Of ostracized philosophers

For having dared to think otherwise

Of carved wood lining the walls

All has dissolved

Into a slurry

Spat back

Soulless

Artificial