Marble halls and city walls… He lined them all with figures tall who
Called to passers-by and cast their eyes with scorn on forms imperfect —
Spread across the lawns… and born to wonder just why they coughed and
Cursed and died cos statues never die. They keep their beauty, hardly worn
Though storms have tried to break them. And bombs dropped at their feet.
They’re still standing, naked, but they’re warm. They’re waiting for their
Turn to rule a world where nothing speaks and nothing’s small — nothing’s
Ever worshipped. Where they’re gods themsleves. A ‘perfect’ world.
