Headless Wisdom
There, that tall headless stone,
hand still out, receiving,
where sculptor’s hand mocked,
and heart has fled,
a life never really lived, yet watching
from above, ruling the city
longer than any other king before.
If lips could move,
this dismantled monument might speak,
“Hark! Small children below my feet,
much you have yet to see.
When your flesh is as ancient and worn as me,
King of these lands, I still will be.
Headless, I may be, but far
does my arm with wisdom still reach.”
