Beneath the roots of mountains, ancient-deep,
A city hangs from silver, braided strands;
Where architects of eight-fold shadow sleep,
And weave the fabric of the lower lands.
The bridges sway above a dark abyss,
Of gossamer as strong as tempered steel;
Where every wind is like a lover’s kiss,
And every touch is something one can feel.
The lanterns are the husks of glowing flies,
That cast a sickly emerald on the street;
While far above, the subterranean skies,
Are thick with webs where light and shadow meet.
A traveler treads upon the sticky floor,
And finds he cannot find the outer door.
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