A haze has melted tracks and trees
And terraces and Moorish walls
And egrets staring into space,
In which the vultures spin like dust.
Below the surface of the pools,
Behind the garish skin of sky,
And deep beneath the mottled earth,
There hide the many names of pride.
The fountains, tiles, the mind of god,
Re-shaping seasons, draining swamps,
The petrol shimmer on the lakes,
The urge to build away the pain.
An absence lingers by the nests:
You lose the pride, you lose the birds.