= The Sphinx =

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  • Fantasy

    = The Sphinx =

    =The Sphinx=

    I am
    What the ancients named
    The Sphinx
    The mystery of my origin is lost
    In the sands of ages past.
    With the Great Pyramids
    I might link
    I do not know
    For the time of my beginning
    Is mystery to me also
    I know only that
    I am here...I exist
    In my monumental creation
    I live
    I breathe the hot sirrocco winds -
    - Breath of the gods
    Stinging sands cast by their hands
    In anger against those who
    Prostrate themselves
    Before me
    Is my creation a work
    Of man? Or gods?
    Only my creator knows
    Perhaps his voice comes to my ears
    Which, of stone, do not hear,
    And yet,
    A voice carries to me over the
    Ever-blowing winds and desert sands
    Am I alone?
    How many eons will pass
    Before no longer
    I am?
    I have seen the true color of wars
    Angry red, in rivers running
    Seen brave men weep
    Their women and children die,
    Sacrifices of flesh, to stone.
    Out into the infinities of the universe
    Stretch my longings
    To be free
    Of this body of stone
    True spirit - not god, not man
    "I am"

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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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