Inside rare tracts of history and art I sense the quickening pulses dart- My nation's past from days of yore My nation's past is rich in lore- So tells the lilt in my warbling Heart. Enter Ashurbanipal Assyrian King Descendant of the House of Bél Held by the earth in awe and thrall. Resplendent in regal garb Majestic on his charging steeds- Ministering with care to his Wounded foes Be it to men in battle or To impaled lions in death's Throes- The world lauding his magnanimous Deeds. The edict From the Court went out: 'He is your king. Safeguard his life' So we prayed the gods for him- To keep. Ashurbanipal, a mortal, His days rife, Transmogrified. His bust was mounted on a Pedestal. He became- A lifeless, stony heap- A priceless museum piece! Meanwhile The unrelenting, fickle sun On a constant, steady trudge Moving, undaunted Across the sere heavens Of holocene, brittle time- Traipsing over the centuries Walking surely Hesitating briefly Only to illumine scenes of Horrible destruction Visited upon my people Deeds perpetrated by Inhuman acts of Barbarian, predatory enemies The sun's rays, pointed Like sharp pincers- Unbroken, streaking, Ramming, undermining The shaky braces shoring my Splintered psyche Caged inside its Hollowed out existence- The sounds clashing With obsidian force In the inner sanctum of My tattered soul Parting away The hoary cobwebs, removing The dust of millennia Covering my weary, failing eyes- These deafening sounds Reverberating Inside the walls of My once proud existence. I touch my parched lips- From this brutish repast Of deep, acrimonious memories I taste the bitter essence Of death and defeat. Temporal, never?ending time Pausing, for a brief instant At nineteen hundred thirty three a.d. Lo and behold! Another window, another crime In an ages?long plethora of crimes In progress Against my people Against my own flesh and blood Giving birth to a Ghost of extirpation, rising In the shape of a ghastly skeleton Pointing at and Mocking the flimsy contraption Holding together My eviscerated flesh and bones. Within the vortex of this macabre Cauldron of immolation Time momentarily stops For one fleeting instant My almost shuttered eyes Glimpse a waif A mere child Brother Eshoo Standing barefoot, stockstill Terror in his stone?grey eyes Witness to his father's death- Discrediting Byron's mythical, Fictitious tale- In the blood?soaked streets of Simail! His mother's grief and cries, Evoking no gallant deeds The might that defined Assyria's sacred past-alas! Naught left For this hour of need? No leaders left To rise and lead? And Atour's soul is torn And Atour's pain is deep- Remnants of her progeny left on Earth dispersed-or In subterranean sleep! Hearken and hear! Distant rhapsodies from our Forebears Bequeating their finest Monodies To quell our inner Parodies- Stoking our wounds to bleed! Is ours a dying creed? Is our destiny an extinction trap? Or a pattern in history's Uncertain, savage leaps? My face recedes to color of clay I gaze at my threshhold steep Stark choice facing me today- The cemetery's dirt to reap? Sorrows, griefs and laments?all Reflections from yesterday! O exalted heritage Ours was a land of spirited, Indomitable people- Of scholars, linguists Astronomers, sages, Artists and artisans Innovators and healers- Law?givers to the world- Builders in civilization. Distraught Atour Cast off your heavy burden- We who carry the banner Are the sons and daughters of your Glorious nation The very race that lit a bright light Into the dungeons of the Dark Ages We are the same ennobled people. Think and discern Our tragedy. Yet affirm- The out of sight vistas that are Dazzling in their brightness Far in the distance The lights are still flickering On our once great land On our beleaguered nation On beloved Nineveh And on its Turbulent Epochal Immortal Day.

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