Terry O'Leary Poems
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.
Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife) , surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale, in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp ...
Terry? ? ?