Above my baseball cap, the sun poured light
upon the stretch of arid, starving sand,
a golden urn suspended at the height
of gods and kings who once ruled ancient lands.
It juxtaposed the sneakers on my heels,
emblazoning the stones, once wrought with gold;
I contemplated fortune’s mystic wheel,
the spinning course no oracle foretold.
Beside me, jaded ghosts of caravans
resigned their kohl-lined eyes in wistful rue,
longed for the age before fate’s fickle plan,
and wept for glory’s fading residue.
For chance and fate now spin the skies with fire,
and forsake the pillars of Palmyra.