He sits atop his lofty minaret
Long legs wrapping round the tower like a spider
Surveying his kingdom of faceless travelers
With his dark eyes and the tick tock from his chest
Nameless forms all touching hands
And speaking in some foreign tongue
Impenetrable to him
Familiar words in unfamiliar circumstances
Like TV commercials all clamouring for attention
Saying nothing at all at high volume
The only voices that make sense are the crows
With their mournful reminders of decay
The inevitable end cycle of things
Rot and rebirth
He sits in this place
Watching the beetles and flies turning things over
Waiting for them to turn him over
So he can start again as something new