The Ruins

I

The biting winds and scattered dust-clouds cross the plain
Their endless whirls begin a wretched grey refrain.
Wide streets, tall arches, scaffolds, spires all reaching high
All empty, lifeless, rotting 'neath a blood-red sky.
One solitary soul, in nearby lonely hills
At day's end, tolled in mind, feels night's cruel coiling chills.
He sees this desolation, barren fruit of toil,
Untimely ended, lost to pillage and turmoil.

II

A great barbarian horde doth lay tremendous waste
Unto the city's streets, with merciless swift haste.
Their chieftains cry aloud, an order new to bring.
Their praises do they force their captives all to sing;
They swear that this new age is greatest of all times.
They burn all relics of the past, they melt the chimes,
Lay fire to tomes and letters, tear great bridges down:
By morning they shall forge a wretched Babylon.

III

The wanderer above reveals his face- a child!
His eyes are bruis'd and downcast, and his hair is wild.
He wonders at these conquerors who rule the land
A rusted locket doth he hold within his hand.
A portrait lies within, of tow'ring gilded spires
The ruined city's streets, before the gnawing fires.
Two warriors seize him now, and drag him back in pain
Unto the city's ruin, to serve for others' gain.

IV

The child now holds fast to his mother's tender arm;
His father's eight years gone; his mem'ries are but harm.
Within a putrid place, with others do they dwell
They hear the tyrant's roars, they see his armies swell.
For every day, another swears a mighty oath
To purge the past away, forgotten deeds to loathe.
Beneath the ancient spires, a brutal order keep
Of every older loyalty, away these warriors sweep.

V

Inside the hovel, do the children gather 'round
These slaves supposed at rest, their hands and feet unbound.
They look upon the locket, and smell the filthy air.
They look upon an apple tree, withered yet fair.
None can remember days 'fore tyrants raped the land;
They scrape for scraps of food midst piles of ash and sand.
An elder lies nearby, his ancient heart lies broke
A little tinder-fire he aims to try to stoke.

VI

He tells unto the children tales of days gone by
Of bustling city walks, of bird up in the sky
Destruction has been brought by this new conqu'ring foe:
No greatness as before, but only ash and woe.
A few wise men remain, rulers survived from old,
They flee in fear and pain, they fight but are not bold.
Mere losing struggles are their battles, weak in will:
They lack morale, and half-believe the lies they kill.

VII

As crushing boot-steps near, as morning nears its dawn,
The foes seize up each wretch to be a slave and pawn.
The wild-hair'd lad hides deep within his frown one thought:
A question without answers, a soul's war ever fought.
Within his beaten scalp, this sacred task he takes:
When those who tell the truth bittersweet life forsakes
He shall alone preserve whate'er few truths remain
When there is naught to lose, there's everything to gain.

VIII

If none are strong whose hearts and souls are full of light,
The weak they could protect would perish in the night.
The tyrant's words, constructed with deceptive mind,
Replace true sense and fact, strike innocent men blind.
Proud banners wave from ruins where proud tyrants dwell;
All right is wrong, all wrong is right, the decadent would tell.
Proud orgies of new lunacies shroud all in gloom,
And the old man, the dying slave, crawls to his tomb.
Last words he speaks, with rasp, and bitter weeping grin:
"These foes are of our blood- they conquered from within."