He stood where a thousand feet had stood,
Had milled and treaded till each day was done,
A thousand and thousands more,
And now there were none.
His eyes fell upon something,
It lay there on the ground,
Testifying to what once was,
Without uttering a sound.
And in his hand it glimmered,
Just a shard of art from long ago,
A piece of some craftsman's heart,
Who no one living will know.
That little broken bit,
Tried in vain to speak the glory of kings,
To cry out, "Look at us!",
"At our glory, our richness, our beautiful things!"
He dropped it back in the rubble,
Of what had been great then,
Built over lifetimes,
Of the hearts and minds of men.
And as he stood in the ruins,
He mourned not for the great that fell,
But for the bitter truth,
That he must fall as well.
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