It doesn't look like one, I know.
Puffs -- I've counted them. Fifty.
Green stem. Dandelion. Although --
How would it look from the center?
Feathered pylons, tall, stretched to the sky.
A hard vision, maybe, to enter.
But think of being there. Just you try.
Imagine it crowded with people.
Each pylon a building, a home.
Offices. Or a church steeple.
In fellowship; no one's alone.
The city has faith in its duties.
The engineers are its high priests.
No sacrifices. No cruelties.
But prayers dedicated to peace.
Those prayers haven't always been answered.
Once the barbarians came.
They lost. Their chief fell on his sword.
The others all left in their shame.
And a king laid vain siege to the city.
To capture defectors, his cause.
For the wisdom they held. Spare him pity.
For nobody leaves there, because --
No place could compare. Nowhere's as good.
And that's why they stay, for they know.
Oh, but they could. And if only they would,
the seeds that the city would sow!
This city no siege, no invader
could ever begin to bring low --
return to this thought again, later.
Now close your eyes. Purse your lips. Blow.