That one
who raised their head, lion like
to the wind
and after a stillness, bent again
drank the last draught with slurping lips
eyes full of reflection
belly parched
the wind of the night would carry them away
soul and still,
water and were,
two, the last syllables of wreck or din
leaving the glass and steel towers to reflect themselves
until the billion billion movements of time,
unrecorded time,
turned those, too, to a cloud, dry as dryness itself
dry as the sun, who never took our name
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