For the furious porphureos of thunderstruck
Waves, civilization shimmers and kills, falls
And glimmers in its own wine-dark blood,
Glinting with flecks of paint and metal, ready
To rise up and strike again, to drown again
In expanding waves of sand, blown hot
To glass, shining and rising with artifice,
Glossy death again. This is Syria, Assyria,
Sumeria, and all the rest, fecund mothers
Of tongues and faiths, priests and kingdoms,
Vast waves rolling out to flood the flat world.
You can’t get out; you can’t escape the flash.
Islands drown in it. Even mountains aren’t safe.
You can announce you are leaving, cross
Your arms and turn your back, but the sands,
Even if briefly subsiding, will rise and roll back
And overtake your isolation where you stand.