The Ruins

No thing erases. Myth’s wind cannot blot
out the name in alabaster. Atlantis lives
on history’s tongue. Every time I open
my mouth, ruins bare their wear and resilience.
And the faces shaped in stone beneath vines,
beneath old world prophecies, whisper prayers
in the jungle. Lost civilizations roam the hills
of their time, sculpting temples and empires
with believers’ blood. And with or without
faith, ruins remain stealthy. Every memory
claws to preserve time’s looming heft. Gold idols
pulse with sun, the grand completion of stone
upon stone, stone upon the flesh of men.
And the shimmer of gold-meal curtains
sewn by loyal fingers part for the emperor
on his way to sacrifice. He rules the remnants
with an iron face—crushing. When I open
my mouth, he calls from the temple’s zenith,
shrouded in light. He is his own eclipse. Of time
and myth. He booms his tenor over every land I know,
You, too, will ruin, become eternal whisper.