The Whole Odophonium

History builds in brick. Violence,
More than earthquakes, flattens it. Ages
Weather violence attractively.

Sooner or later, someone’s hymning
The ruins, or crediting their bulk
To a lost race of god-like giants.

Sooner or later, life grows over
Everything, and as lives are addicts
To even the faintest fumes of life,

Old violence greens into music,
The muskier perfumes for low notes,
The sharper scents piercing arias.

Violence well grown-over is lush,
So intoxicating to visit.
Then someone bakes fresh bricks from the dust.