On the steps this afternoon they sat;
The crooked men, aged and faded.
Like the stones, they sat.
On the steps, they talked.
Upon a language so ancient and weary,
They laboured with each breath.
Coarse and dry, their voices caught
Each crack and echo in a timeless land of sound.
In colours, pale and windblown,
Cut by sand, the old men sat and talked in time,
Pointing to the air, drawing patterns on the ground,
Painting visions with their words.
Perhaps they spoke of other lands,
Of ancient kings, or tomorrow’s heroes.
In the wind, their words were as free as kites.
And we passed by the steps unseen.
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