I met a Man at the center

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)



From empty bellies of times misgiving,
stand, with trunks digging deep into earth,
washing the sickle's feet in ash.

Let drums hum, deep and dividing,
marking god's footprints, tearing, ripping,
grasp at it and feel it slip.

And cobbled stone left stained, enchanted,
lips holding, poised, jaws shaking,
feeling despair settle into your syntax.

He speaks, "Just as tumult subsides,
bright light doth bring anew, fear not
the pain is endless, but the end is near."

From promises now forsworn,
from Gaea's bosom, Colossus is born.