The Dead City
A used battlefield grows quiet;
among strange escutcheons
the wind keeps silence;
and if one should return,
seeking the cold towers,
the glutted drain,
the windows that looked onto cliffs
and cliffs beyond them,
armed with steel and snow,
then there are high seats for his rest,
there are passes for the gates
flung down like dice;
there are robes of ivy
and the seeping fireweed
that he may claim, uncontested.