George Sylvester Viereck


The Buried City

My heart is like a city of the gay
   Reared on the ruins of a perished one
   Wherein my dead loves cower from the sun,
White-swathed like kings, the Pharaohs of a day.
Within the buried city stirs no sound,
   Save for the bat, forgetful of the rod,
   Perched on the knee of some deserted god,
And for the groan of rivers underground.

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