My feet stumble along a road
cobblestoned in quarried granite
and recycled marble; I trip over
the back of a god, former. Drops
of sweat, blood, sweaty blood
fall, soon matted into dust, a
dried remembrance of things past,
things lost but brilliant for a time
flashes of color amid
a gray somberness, a silence
of growing dread, a silence
The way to the hill is paved
with hot granite, melting marble,
stones burning as they cry out.
Photograph: Mercantour by Michel Bousquet via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.