Orpheus and Eurydice

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.