The ruins that count are not studied by any archaeology
They do not make people wonder and they
Do not put money in the pockets of the travelling agents
No, they are left outside the objective world of science
And outside the subjective world of emotion and humanism
They are the ruins of flesh, the eaten up youths
Spent in the shadows of the history
Where the flash-lights of the public conscience never reach
They are just as petrified as the ancient cities
And there’s nothing that grows on them, not even poisonous grass
Not even the faintest vegetal asperity
That could serve as a handle for the others, that could
Alter their strange transparency, their being like they are not at all
These are the ruins I care about, I even
Thought of building a church on them