Ninety-Three

Ninety-three is infinite and whole,
Interred by Nature in a ruined city.
Neither sea nor sky knows streets or squares,
Edges, angles, opposites, or pairs,
Time or yearning, pleasure, joy, or pity;
Yet both reside within the prisoned soul.

Though years of brick and stone must take their toll,
Horizons are as spiritual as prayers,
Removing ancient boundary lines and stairs.
Each truth is neither old nor young and pretty,
Eternally at rest upon no shoal.