They commit these things to memory.
Marble plaques, brittle maps of brittle cities,
constellations in cloudless skies.
And the havoc… Wreckage dusted.
Traces of antiquity left in the sand.
One trudges alone with his hands in a knot,
taking in the wavering scenery.
Tonight, there be explosions
setting in motion an unprecedented course.
The river, used up… Golden shafts…
Drifts of… Arising in myriads…
And what he knew about the games…
Scrawling their names on each page
and crystallizing one by one
into pillars of salt. Scattered
in a grumbling wind.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 