26 Apr 2004

The fields near the shore have been turned by the harrow the women are baking bread for tomorrow
Ashes of corpses and ashes of houses and blood on the land
Columns of smoke rise as emblems of despair the loudspeaker sputters out a final call to prayer
Broken horizons and hobbling horses and blood on the sand

Who am I to call myself son of the stars
Who am I to deny the claims of my heart
Who am I to call Carthage my own

The house holds its ruin within its own walls the foundation stones are the seeds of downfall
Salt in the wounds salt in the furrows the bend of the knees
The sons burning Carthage are sons born of Priam and daughters of Cain are the sisters of Zion
Elephants coming down out of the mountains and fear on the breeze


Here in this city where the talk shows are tragic where staying alive feels like studying magic
Where I am still looking for Truth in the circus and lies in the Times
Wander these streets ‘til the desert has made me numb ride on these rails like a disciple sick for home
Write down the memories of your wooden soldiers and write down your crimes


If you were Queen Dido and I was Aeneas how could I how would I have left this heavenly bliss
Does that make me the slave of passion or king of my fate
If I was destined for the founding of empire how could I conquer the walls of desire
Would I be captive to gods in the heavens or gods of my mind