Behold! Behind yon barred doors, within the
Citadel, the arbor to which no gates enter!
From its windows no Adonaïs perches; none to
watch its evocations prosper and in due time
wither, tended by the hand of unseen gardener!
Once shaped by man's view, wrought into being
by his hand, now all glory is gone yet prospers!
Her orchards now slain by Rosebane and Heartvine,
today their thousand blossoms will bloom! Embrace
and caress will they the statues of your lovers'
and kings', their crowns lost by the legions of
spring! In serenity her marble busts watch over
naught but illusions; its pavement weighted down
by naught but dreams and time!
Behold! Where once was played, with harps of
delight, the music of man, now only nightingales
persist and sing!
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