Chill morning mist.
Gleaming wet flagstones.
Mountainous towers.
Shrill clamoring voices.
Thumping hoofs.
Groaning wheels.
Clashing iron.
Smells, unspecified.
Narrow, cobbled, twisting, labyrinthine streets.
Slippery muck.
High, peak-roofed, crazily leaning houses.
Heavy brass doors.
Narrow slit windows.
Overhanging balconies.
Flimsy wooden booths of pottery, clothing, tools, weapons, rugs, food and wine.
Minareted temples.
Blood-smeared gods.
Swirling crowd.
Braying trumpet.
Galloping guardsmen.
Sheeting mud.
Trampled child.
Chained slaves.
Bleeding feet.
Market square.
Hanged bodies.
Happy harpist.
Blind alleys.
The human rulers of this planet have turned into a blind alley.
1 comment:
Kaor, Paul!
Better put, I think, is that those human rulers will soon no longer be culturally human.
Ad astra! Sean
Post a Comment