the ghosts of nimrud are summoned tonight.
their voices whisper in a tongue
our ears barely remember,
wafting from the cracked and broken
statues,
like vapour hovering above the crumbling stones.
but lo, this is no dirge I hear;
no cry of mourning,
no wailing, no tears.
the shadows suspended on dust
are laughing.
you who chase after empire,
take heed!
they laugh at your folly,
at your pride.
do you think your black-clad ozymandias
will last any longer in these desert sands?
do you think your pounding rivers of blood can drown out
the sound
of civilization,
whispered into the ears of little girls
with schoolbooks?
with schoolbooks?
living voices may need to lament, but
the ghosts of nimrud laugh.
the ghosts of nimrud laugh.
you cannot hurt them.
they have nothing more to loose,
for sand claims everything
the hand of man touches.
and yet,
each bright-eyed child
finds footprints in the dust,
leading them onward, onward,
guided by the whispers of the past.
guided by the whispers of the past.
