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On the ruins of the ruins 
cakes of cosmic dust amassed, 
spawned a city pounded pretty, 
with its footings on its past. 
Curbstones and walls, echo footfalls 
centuries silenced and mossed. 
Balconies spy each passerby, 
for silhouettes centuries lost. 
The cobble peal resounding zeal 
at the iron-clad clatter of hooves, 
recalling when all of the men rode, 
rattling windows and roofs. 
Night emptied street lacking concrete, 
bounces each voice thousand fold. 
Every voice heard, foreign 
or slurred Castilian or Chiché of old. 
An orphan theme, the remnants scream 
for parents lamentably missing. 
And ever meekly offered cheek we 
are misrepresentably kissing. 

- John Whitehead

to John
to Poets
to Moongate