I Like This Place Old

Man next to me lights a cigarette,
a passive way for me to be with the spirits,
at another sight of ruins,

That have more memory than stone,
more tourist than bone,
and not even the jungle knows what happened here.
Perhaps the falling leaves do.

Perhaps the blue sky too,
where vultures roam over their fathers home,
and ten thousand dragonflies circle in droves.

I like this place old, and ruined,
spoilt only by the fat curiosity of modern retirement.

I like this place old,
as the natural world takes it back in pieces,
and spreads us out to the horizon,
to make us it's own.

I like this place old,
that ages as I do,
that decays at a rate of days,

That is just a human spirit in a body of earthen stone.

I like this place old,
and I would like it more if it were lost and untold,
for then soft hands can be known,

And so then the temples within can grow,
and the truth about truth can unfold.


Palenque, Mexico
Benjamin W Wild © copyright 2007