Carthage

A wooden frame upon a hill
And those few people who pulled together
Beneath a roof with holes thought
Nothing of the wind that robbed their nights
Of blissful dreams.

She looked out eyes wide
Awake with the knowing
The feeling that
Things are not as they should be
As they were intended to be
As she wanted them to be
And she kissed those dreams
And turned.

He wept, wind in his
Hair blown back towards what
Was left behind. Destiny
Not given to kindness
And fate made by poets
Long dead.