the story, of her legend, contain no words
like those passing dreams, devoid of life.
in colour,like shadows drifting away, unheard,
empty in their existence, searching her slaves,
her victims, blinded by her fury and passions.
slowly, descends life, upon those rocks
built to last, lover’s tribute to perfection;
oppression the tool, hands their enemy,
sacrificed. strange price for immortality;
demanded she, war to win, in madness.
past their interest and civilisations their living;
slaves they were then and now orphans;
artists of form and symmetry; and sand
seek justice, denied when alive, from time
as they fell to earth, like november rain.
strange battle it was and made no sense
to mind and heart, and their loss immense;
strange rules, virtues of politics and religion,
hands their saviour, hands their enemy, to
create palace of bricks and have no graves!
Hate, heavy as those stones,carried,
they once, for generations, for those Pharos,
as colour, idea and words are to the artist.
noticed they never, the Gods, revenge of those
hands, letting them free, and Pharos hostages!