Women there walk, white dresses flowing. Courtyards echo cooly, concealing children at play. Bakers smile; bread beckons, brown and fresh, to the crowd, passersby, on foot and horse, purple-clad and humble.
Great gardens grow, green-bright, blue, and red, by a murmuring river meandering, its melody simple and soft, slowly singing among them of sweetness and of love. Laughter, glad and free, lingers always in that sunny vale.
Their whispers fading wakened me then. The blazing brilliance burned my eyes. Sand shifted soundlessly around rubble and rocks, the remnants, standing still.
Today, I toiled, teaching, as I could; my busy bustle broke me to sleep; lists of the left-undone littered my desk. Dreaming, I returned, down winding paths.
In the Valley of Kings are vaults forgotten, names forever lost, of a nation once alive, eating and drinking, entertained, carefree. When, at last, will my whispers fade?
This poem was inspired by my visit to Palmyra about 10 years ago. I really enjoyed my visit to Syria, and all of the terrible things that have happened there since sadden me. I wonder about the people I met who work there, like the waiter at the hotel restaurant. I pray that they are still safe.
Thanks to @geekorner for his tireless editing.
Recent works:
And They Dance Ozymandius Alone in the Heavens
art courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
