Towering spires sail high overhead
eclipsing the sun stretched like claws
the wickets of gods always present above
understood not by those at their feet
Terrible import their silhouette speaks
rust colored shadows they throw
remains of an era now long since passed
unyielding to time's desperate flow
Circumfring the footings of terrible heights
chanting to unseen eyes surely there
undulating figures spread on the grass
to capture what favor they may
Beyond their small reckoning
at the gray tower's slender peak
a single eye watching them
chronicles all movements
and as drumbeats swell
the unblinking eye sees
as the pace speeds
one question it asks
watching these
figures so far
beneath;
Are they humans, or are they dancers?
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