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I met a traveler in an antique land, her works scattered in the dust beyond.
Her language was lost to time, her garments faded in the sun.
The stars were in her eyes, and years were written on her lips.
Once this place was hers, great pedestals rising from the sand.
Works of stone, and bronze, and banners whistling through the breeze.
But now she stands, alone, in bones and dunes far from any road.
Maybe a queen, a goddess, some shade of shattered statues nearby in the sun.
The cruelty still lingers in her gaze, pride in what she sees.
She spies ghosts and memories, a history I do not know.
My hands are real, not scattered trunks, a voice of steel and coal.
She looks upon her works, once mighty, and despairs.
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- 7 years ago
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