The patina of time is thick.
We feel a life inside old brick
We don’t on a mountain’s summit
Or taste in a fall windstorm’s grit.
For millennia after it fell,
An Athenian couldn’t tell,
As he passed its ruins by,
If it was really there, or why.
It cried out to his soul, sundered
By countless years of surrender,
A mountain of crumbling stone
Better ignored and left alone.
Did he feel, see or comprehend
That glory has no casual end?
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