They will have us yet – hanging
Like the last citadel.
Crude and ungainly, our resonance
Will sit amongst dust motes and flax.
Behind un-lettered doors only
The rats must pay us mind – and
A caretaker, quixotically, imagine
Ghostly uprisings.
Come back into our lost design,
The lyric will lead
The transmutation… how the walls
Must fall to our final filial ear – and
Adjudicate that stylographs
Should have seen us
Demotic idioms – not
Diplomats.