Look at that rusty god, petting the boats, soaking his feet, washing off meaningless bell rings and prayers full of saw dust.
Look at his smile and the tear in the corner of his eye, he is old now. Old enough to know he is not infinite and the hand of all shall claim him.
“Was he good or bad?” I can only see the marks he left in greys and gold- I must say, I do not know.
“Where should we scatter his remains?” In the cage of my grief, I’ll lock up the cruisades and in the yard, by the flowers, I’ll plant the love and faith.
“Do you think he is afraid?” The other mayors of life are angry the prophets said: too much fame and not enough will power, look at those illuminated wanderers, clawing at the gates, look at all the bad he wouldn’t cast away.
“How will we commemorate?” Like all the golden empires that have fallen into the crack of time, his footprint will bruise us and we’ll touch it to remember where the glorious pain stroke us.
“How will we forgive?” With him gone, will we have to?