Properties of Dirt

Then she saw the streets between the crumbled knees of ruined queens
Statues torn apart from every time her children fought
A pack of hungry dogs that lick her hands and howl at mournful sounds
From smokeless, lonely towers
The cold wind pushing up their empty mouths

You're not alone--Godforsaken, maybe--but you've got a brand new home

They creep over glass, the missing tears of Lincolns, Cadillacs
Millions of themselves, the city's salt that glitters from the ground

You're not alone

Your room's near the top, whеre spiders tie your drеams in silky knots
A board game made of wood, your head against the sloping roof
A game devised by men who serve the caliph's court and study sand
The properties of dirt, the smallest stones that work their way through her

You're not alone