There you stand,

a tribute to those who built you,

in stoic defiance of time

you look on Ozymandias with scorn.


Shrouded in mystery

as much as in clouds and mist,

they truly have no idea

why you are there.


What could possibly motivate

an ancient people

to move such monolithic slabs

across such a great distance,

erect them on this plain

in such a precise pattern

as this?


When your makers

didn’t know

where their next meal

would come from

why would they choose

rather than gathering or hunting

to drag your bones

across the hills

and breathe you into being?


They say they don’t know

what purpose

you might have held

but why else

would you be here

if you were not the result

of some religious endeavor?

You are the manifestation

of belief. Of faith.


You stand proud against the test of time

as many wish they could:

Your stones are wise with age,

the veil of moss seen as sacred.

They say that faith can move mountains.

You know it to be true.

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