They just out from the horizon.
Two black fingers split the setting sun
These two ancient towers casting
their crooked shadows in the plains

They shutter in the temperate winds
standing like broken old men.
Their weathered frame brittle
as they stand skewed in the distance

All their ornaments, all their garnish, gone
stripped by the belting wear of the passing days.
The smooth white surface stained
now withered, broken, and concave.

They solemnly wait in the plains.
A memory of something once profound
now forgotten, a sad relic
left to the plains and the setting sun.