I have a memory that isn’t mine.
Sometimes I take it out, to puzzle over it again.
The scene exists in my mind, static as a photograph
But one that will, in the next instant, dissolve
Into motion.

First, see these people:
They rest, disheartened, in the middle of the scene,
A small group, huddled together,
Defeated. What has brought them to this
My picture does not tell. I only know
That they must have lost something vital.
Heads turned, they are looking upwards
Towards what they have lost, or
What they yet hope to find. It is a bright dream,
And they yearn towards it hopelessly.
The sun seems to share their fatigue,
Shining tiredly in a sky of glassy green.
Its light is slow and thick, like water.

They do not look down the path where they stand
Midway between high and low.
It is the only track to be seen. The rest is green waste
In front of them, as far as may be seen. Long grass,
Taller than any of these travelers, rippling
It would seem in some wind. It flows on forever, hills
Like great waves breaking in places, the path disappearing
Like a track of sand into the sea. It is not here they look.
Their eyes are fastened on the City, rising
From the grasslands like slender spires from the sea.
Buildings like coral lift domed heads
Above the green waves. In glory they reflect the light
Of the worn-out sun, their surfaces gilded, radiant.
It is balm to weary souls, an eternal mirage that stands
Rock steady. It dims and wavers only in the eyes
Of those who look.

Those eyes, in the next instant, will return
To the dusty path beneath aching feet. I know.
But do they go up, this tiny band,
To the shining City? Have they paused here only to
Refresh themselves with a sight of journey’s end, or
Do they take a last yearning look? Do they go now
To lose themselves in the endless grass, that swaying
Imperturbable ocean that will swallow them without question?

I cannot know, for I have lost the answer
Forever among the pages of a forgotten book.