In the Temple

We climb the twisting stair
which creaks and groans
beneath our leathered feet, each
voice calling silently after us
as we meet these strings of music that
hang so delicately above;
and we watch the sky fade
here above the earth,
and we hear the desert roar
and toss its wild mane, breathing
hard across the backs of giants
who sleep around us as the sun
rises higher.

We are ghosts
who wander in twos, or threes,
or alone,
through sweeping white dust,
appearing and reappearing at the whim
of the winds that swirl
and howl through twinkling strings
of music that hang above,
each silver sliver that shines
in the muted sunlight.

And as we pass each to each
we never see another soul,
hearing only the white sounds, the faint
moans and songs of those beside us,
closing our eyes and breathing deeply
these clouds through our nostrils
that we might feel the air,
turning and returning through the ash and smoke,
and get to know this spirit better.

And it does not rain, here among these
ghosts and wanderers, yet I feel
the faintest drops against my cheek,
and I can stare at the afternoon sun
hanging moon-like behind the veil;
it does not rain, for every hand
is held outstretched
to taste the white rays that wash
and flow around our every curve.

And I hear nothing, and I cannot see
the sky above, nor the shrouded shapes
that once stood all around,
nor feel the pulsing beat of this city
which once sounded and resounded
through the day, and the one before;
I hear nothing,
and oh, how loudly it speaks
to me.