Walk in the land that time forgot
(the land remembers, we do not)
and in the sickly-scented shade
of Cypress trees, an esplanade
will point the way to where there stood
a temple, in a silent wood
of Cedars from the Lebanon.
This grove of living censers found
the perfume that they spread around
with roots, sunk deep into the land
where incense lies and where they stand,
like priests upon the mountainside.
A fading fresco on a wall -
a broken picture - can recall
in words as vivid as a thought,
a memory which if left to aught
but flowers, would too soon decay,
lose it's colour, fade away
like Orpheus and Eurydice.