I arrive.
My youthful eyes skitter feverishly.
Vines snake through cracked brick terraces.
The glossy marble stairway ascends--bridging the chasm.
Undulating palm tree fronds tickle robust pillars.
I pluck swollen dates from low branches.
Life is flourishing.

I notice
revolving clay pots spilling over with water,
splashing life onto foliage, dripping down stone siding.
Plants thrive amidst an army of parched throats and tired feet,
treading restlessly week after week to the Euphrates.
A whisper of discontent floats in the breeze...
Life is struggling.

I hear that the gardens must die.
Beauty is futile when life is suffering.

I see
wilting leaves crumbling into heaps
and clay shards scattered across abandoned terraces.
Rotten fruit gives beneath my feet--the stench of decay encompasses.
My hand brushes gently against the old pillars, 
fractured...flawed...forgotten.
Life is dwindling.

I arrive
at the top of the cracked brick terrace.
The wind carries a wisp of silver hair across my face.
An exodus ensues below--hordes scatter away from the epicenter of failure.
My back rests on the cracked bark of a leafless palm tree.
Silence suffocates my senses.
Life is gone.