This is history, I would not disturb it: the ruins of stone and marble,

The crumbling wall of brick,

the coma of alienated decay.

How exactly should the archaic dead make me behave?

Around fifty years ago, I might have lived.

Now nothing offends my ways.

A quietness of bramble and grass holds me to a weed.

Will it matter if I Know who the victims were,

who survived?

And yet, awed by the forgotten dead.