I cannot get to you. You are like Jerusalem, a misguided city. Your name is exposed to the sun while i call to you in the silence of the volcanic pre-dawn. You have slides of affectation. A pilgrim might mistake you for the safety of a handhold hammered in the sand.
Other travelers knew the peril of your affection.
You don't reply. So cold the monument, so silent the wall of your response.
This is all I know and so do you that the messages of the world fall like the snow on the ground white with shadows. Mute replicas of shared emotion.