Through the archways they came—
out of millennia and dust,
from Khan to Hitler,
from Booth to Ray,
from bronze and iron
to atom and ash—
each bearing his hardened steel.
Pride.
Honor.
Vengeance.
Distrust and dominion.
Loathing and power.
These
filled the damp granite halls
where the soldiers of time
trampled cobblestones
in sullied boots.
A nod
of recognition here,
a shove and a snarl there—
they clutched their weapons
like starving infants
at a swollen breast.
Maidens
in corsets moved through smoke,
their flutes spilling silver notes
that rose like incense
into vaulted dark.
The
soldiers stiffened.
Helmets tilted.
Scarred lips parted.
Before
them stood
creatures in white—
so innocent of hatred,
so unmarked by crime.
Desire
flickered in battle-worn eyes.
The sober few drank deep of ale
like jackals at carrion dusk.
The
first to fall was the knight—
entombed in dented steel.
He loosed his nail-studded mace
and cast it to the waiting moat.
Pride
sank.
Deceit followed.
Deep
in silt and silence
the rust began its patient work.
The
seeker of Grail and glory
rose unarmed—
reborn
in the house of Arthur.
The
cowboy watched.
He nodded once,
unholstered his pistol,
unbuckled his belt,
and placed them in the blacksmith’s hand.
Honor
and hate,
vengeance and law—
hammered thin
into a humble horseshoe.
Billy
the Kid removed his dusty hat
and offered not a draw
but an open hand.
For the first time
he shook the sheriff’s palm—
and was reborn
in the house of Garrett.
From
the shadows a musketeer
let fall his blood-streaked foil.
It rang against the stones.
Revenge
seeped from its narrow spine
as creeping weeds
licked it clean of memory.
For
the first time in a century
Romeo looked on Juliet
without feud in his eyes—
and Capulet and Montague
were reborn
in the house of Shakespeare.
Yet
in a darkened alcove
near the spiral stair
stood one more—
gaunt and terrible.
In
his fist he clutched a vial,
the world held hostage
in fragile glass.
In
his pocket—
stupidity and hypocrisy
folded like bribe-stained notes.
Too
weary
to resist the rising music,
too tired
to bear the weight of ruin,
he
opened his bony hand.
The
vial fell—
a soft surrender—
and the moat swallowed
its secret fire.
Kneeling
on ancient stone,
he wept.
For
in that hour
in the house of humanity,
Einstein was reborn.
And
for the first time
since the seventh day of making,
the Shaper of dust,
the Forger of stars and steel,
was glad.
For
in the eleventh hour
of a wounded age,
faith flickered—
not in weapon,
nor in will,
but in surrender.
And
the Maker wept—
not for wrath,
but for mercy.
He
wept
for all his children.
The dome in Hiroshima, Japan. It was one of the very few building that survived the Atomic bomb. (I took this picture back in April of 1885)
The hand of death
(painted with Acrylic paint, December 2011 by Robert Margetts)
