Run, Barbaros, to the foundations of the forbidden city; run, in motley,
To the anchors of the foundless ships;
The long walls lay in crumbling splendour
The omens of their grim surrendur. By palaces of plenty
Forgotten of the iron dragons, through the sagging fields
Of pidgeons, renewed in their severally hinter-flights,
Emanate a winter's blight: of what kind
Cross and battered, with the trappings of mountains
And grinning hollows -- of what kind lost and slathered
In the dew of molting hemlock turds? The squeezing birds'
Ineffable delight, the vistas of expansive sight, all while your right
To the blaring drums and the beating horns
Collapses, while the slabs and slashes
Of our spectral beauty lap
The ruins of the slapping sea.