by Scott Malby
America, through the gates of all nations
the wind comes to blow and the sand
to rummage through scraps of glass.
Persepolis, Susa, Parsargadae.
Faded images of glory; bulls, flying
lions, whose halls of a hundred columns
were to last forever, where are they now?
Be humble America, dust is our legacy.
Like a buried tablet you will become.
An artifact. A hollow gourd, blowing at dusk
the end song of empire.
Scott Malby is a frequent contributor to journals worldwide.