Late night, lone hours.
A clock and its arms wave,
recur as stain.
You are still here,
speck on a wall, crumbling
when the Greeks have left nothing-
only the sadness of history books.
An imprint of fist reminds you.
You, so tired,
the child in your arms has died
when all along you knew
he had a heroe’s fate
down some blasphemous path.
And even a blanket wouldn’t
keep him protected under the sun’s disappearance,
the night rays, ingenious,
as the astronomers predicted-
All the flames of the world leaving you behind.