Carthage

I am Carthage, snatched off the map.
Once warmed by the crazed African sun,
my fingers now extend under the seabed of the Mediterranean.
I wait until time becomes a circle and the past is transformed;
until the past has not passed and my walls fall up from the sand,
walls of gold and ivory envied by Ra and his pharaohs.
Dido will walk backwards out of the underworld,
will be reborn on the funeral pyre of her mad desolation.
I will be reformed through looking glass magic,
sandy streets ever strewn with his fresh footprints.
I will thrive on the stolen rouge kisses of Venus.
Rome will never be born.