In my quest to escape to the rumoured ocean's far roar, I wander all my days in the drifts of the deserts, circling the depths of these vast dune seas that burn under the lidless, captious stare of that great flaming eye. One day therein, I spied the remains of a great tawny tower, that leaned at an oblique angle, broken and blasted by the drifting sands, the four faces of the long decayed clock, shattered below and pointing upwards towards the sky. I imagined it to be some ancient obelisk of progress. The shell of the ruin was wind etched stone, and at its foot, half-buried in the sand, lay a great cracked bell, scorched and bleached. Within the yawning heart of that bell, where the dust had gathered, sheltered from the inextinguishable sun, a shabby tangle of crisped, dried grass clung. I took out my flask, and weighed my generosity, before swilling a few drops into the brown blades. I'm not sure why… But I waited, watched… Maybe I expected an instant bloom, like in the old deserts after the flood. I wait for a minute and then, turned back into the drifting twist of desolation. I still wonder now: did it take? Was that the drop that made the difference? Perhaps now there is a new tree rooted within that great bell. Perhaps the jungle has taken hold and there are birds nested within.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, English romantic poet, died today in 1822.