Whatever war-damage it has suffered,
however smaller it has become,
it is still a wonderful city.
Either we are or are not a great empire,
some days reigning from a distant throne,
cells well-trained legions splitting
and sloughing, others chasing rebellions
raging far and wide, everywhere burning
to the smack of clubs, the cloy of carrion.
Devon Balwit is her body’s benevolent despot.