ConstantineAt dusk, I turn west. Courtiers, encumbered by velvet and laden with metals and precious stones, drag in langourous train, shuffling and tinkling like the interminable cloak of an Oriental princess. At the tower, I unclasp them. They fold to the floor with ponderous patience. I ascend, old, but not feeble, in soft sandals which mark the height to which I, alone, have risen. Over the forests, an invincible sun smoulders, bound in crimson and decorated with fire and fine jewels. The trees throw down their shadows like weapons: blackness surges with the sea. Over the forests, the invincible sun withdraws behind the burden of night, and an onerous retinue of stars. Two sons look back at me: I cannot recall their eyes. The third, with his mother, is dead. And I, athwart this labyrintine city, survey that which I shall leave to them -- an ocean, forests, temples and ruins, golden roads, a dying Sun.