Europhritus wrought me,
flesh and eyes of stone,
and in the grand agora,
how glorious I had shown.
Looking down on children
and men of thoughtful mind,
merchants looking for the foolish
and thieves the same to find,
soldiers from the distant lands,
women from the well,
old men telling stories
of how great heroes fell.
But then there came the battles,
at what a frightening cost,
slaughter on the fields,
so many lives were lost.
So now my home is silent,
and Iíve lost my shining grace,
moss is on my marble skin
and on my weathered face,
and now in lonely solitude,
I crumble to the dust.
Cities may rise again,
but fall as all things must.

The Dust of Statues