It seems no work of Man's creative hand,
By labor wrought as wavering fancy planned;
But from the rock as if by magic grown,
Eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!
Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine,
Where erst Athena held her rites divine;
Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane,
That crowns the hill and consecrates the plain;
But rose-red as if the blush of dawn,
That first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;
The hues of youth upon a brow of woe,
Which Man deemed old two thousand years ago.
Match me such marvel save in Eastern clime,
A rose-red city half as old as time.
—John William Burgon (1845),
Winner of the 1845 Newdigate Prize.
We raise and raze our city
like the strangest house of
cards
a ghost-breath mist of snow
where no snow falls
for we are
Atlantis and the town of Prester
John.
Three weeks apart from
never, we dance and do not
fall.
We are
Shangri-la.
History has dreamed
of us. History has dreamed of
this.
Those who know the way,
many times return.
History has
dreamed of us, building up our
city
just to watch it burn.
We
are Shangri-la.
We carry
goddess-dust upon our skin,
wherever we go,
rising with
bright feathers in the
desert.
Blessed by the wind, we
dance; we thrive.
We shimmer in
the never-was.
We are
Shangri-la.
Those who know the
way...
Relieving saddened sleep
and fitful visions, we return.
We
raise our city high. We watch our
city burn.
We are the mirage for
those who dare to come and
see.
The burning in our blood
will set us free.
We are free.
We
are Shangri-la.
—S.J. Tucker,
Quartered: Songs of Palimpsest (2009)