В руинах мною созданного мира брезжит, тает, перетекает, струит аутентичный пейзаж. Башни и стены проступают на папирусе и островах. Портики и перистили обещают тихий сад, грот, гулкий атриум... Каскады, крипты, колумбарии хоронят там тучные уроны и керны - рунный прах предпоследнего героя. Прощайте, великие нарративы постмодерна. Неф, витая колонна, стрельчатая арка, купол, парус, тромп стерегут кружево фонтана, сток, водопад.... Рябь на воде, ее узоры, расположение листьев на плитах , облака в небе множат свои готические...

There were many ruins, all around.

Clay walls deprived of their roofs
decay easily.
Sometimes shining amongst the ruins were
ceramic tiles which had fallen off the walls.
Stone walls with towers.
He perceived it in a morning dream
And found himself liquid
floating between
golden cupolas and mosaic
like harbour fog.
The sand was howling among his fingers
ulcers in his sinews.
The palace grace was full in full age.
But he regretted
the clumsy motion of desert
and kept the water swashing
on the steps in his blood pulses.

koronis