Everywhere I go, it’s the same thing,
pockets filling up with dirt, with tears,
with small, gray feathers of smoke,
crowds in the background murmuring
a familiar prayer, a famous name,
impatient for the century to at last begin,
or at least for this dry season to end,
and as I stare out across the page,
I wish I could remember a time
when shadows were merely shadows
and our skin was blue and gold
like the gorgeous raiment of sacred kings.