Some Thoughts on Ancient History
My grandfather amidst
An earthquake,
A stone-hard marble pillar
Of a man,
Remains cold, always,
Even to the touch;
He holds up his end
Of the fortress
With clipped words,
Riddled with hard edges
That slip through the cracks
Of a curled upper lip.
My grandfather amidst
The aftermath,
Some stone-hard marble ruins
Of a man,
Remains still, always,
Even when watched;
He holds up his pieces
Of the crumbling site
With resonating silence,
Amplified by a sense of finality
That draws in the ears
Of wandering pilgrims.
By Mel Spiridigliozzi
