grandmother poem

there is a city, builded by no hand
when night drifts along the streets of the city
out of the sparkling sea
what shall we do now
just as my fingers on these keys
friend, whose smile has come to be
by the rude bridge
the mountains they are silent folk
daughter, thou art come to die
i was a goddess ere the marble found me
over the river they beckon to me
awful truths these be
when the wind works against us in the dark