No dog barks in a distant post... Op. 37

No dog barks in a distant post,
The gate unbarred, the battlements worn,
No guard to play the copper horn,
None to blow the bugle of borderlands,
And to sound a warning of shifting sands,
Of inns and taverns which with dust,
Show the signs of decadence and lust.
Though here once sojourned the settlers pride,
No courageous soul now stays to reside,
To populate with childrens' cries,
To travel the trek with uplifted eyes;
The cities now barren, the land empty,
And like akin the unknown oasis, the fertile sea,
Should frown and scorn the race of man,
That leaves undone which with promise began,
And so should too the sun of west,
When unobserved from the citadel he lays to rest.
Yet not all is dead, open hangs not every gate,
No song sings of what is truly desolate,
So here too, one local recruit,
With dreary step and spotted suit,
Drags to man the post in the wall,
Which unmanned leaves the local gall,
To see how the red sun falls, in her bowl
And hear the lonesome wolves' howl.

There, on the stark steps of masonry,
Alone he grows slumberly and dreamy,
Throwing one glance to the southern way,
To dream of dreams which beyond there lay;
Of vivid beauty, with silver white,
With golden clad, towns beyond his sight,
And most of all, where with stern order,
He could banish the waning northern border.
Little he knows, that the silver and gold,
To pay the debts they ever are sold,
And that the Roman roads his mind does pave
With golden tiles, none would brave,
When the hounds of empire, in feral packs,
Have swept even the brigands with their attacks.
Yet, perhaps these things he indeed knew,
As to the northern lands he turns his view,
And wills to see some brazen horde,
Come back to sack and rule with sword;
In its head some flame-drunk Tamerlane,
To sweep this empire in his wane.