William Barnhill

Captured in a pose of tumbling stillness;
Weeping stones bereaves their souls;
Comforted by mossy velvet hands laden with moisture;
Brought by air wet from the kiss of the Caribbean;
Fragrant with the flowers of the jungle;
Smoldering from a tropic sun's relentless pulse;
Driving the eco-force into fits of wind, rain and heat.

Standing in defiance, perimeter walls have fought a battle siege;
A thousand and one hundred years;
Waiting for the return of the un-returnable;
Waiting for the children of this lost world to appear;
Waiting for the temples to fill with the smoke of incense and fire once
again;
Waiting for the glory to extend its hand within these ancient
boundaries;
Unifying the original ways of a culture;
Now only a ghost, floating upon the enigma that we implore;
Lacking in its truth of who has lived and who has died.

Only a quiet voice is heard;
A mumbling whisper;
Scattered about the world by the hands of merchant and collectors;
Separated and cut-off lacking any provenience that could have
enlighten.

Crumbling blocks stained black with mildew are mute;
Sunning reptiles, guardians of the stone, gather warmth;
Posing like the ancient statues that they mock;
Locked in smug silence becoming to the scene.
Stone faces stare out from the facade unblinking, unhindered;
Faded and worn from their original luster;
With no relief in sight they travel onward into the future;
Seeing strangers from another world encroaching with curiosity;
Witnesses to the last breaths of finality.

A thousand and one hundred years ago;
The children disappeared into the jungle;
Dissolving a race and culture;
Denying everything, but the dreams that came each night;
Eventually fading into fleeting memories;
Difficult to recall and impossible to remember.
Storm clouds hang to the east across the expanse of the aqua blue
horizon;
Moving in to wash away the heat from the morning;
Throwing foggy sheets of water upon the sea;
Closer, coming closer, the weather finds its way;
Giant crystal globes begin to fall as they have a million times before;
Upon this relic from the past;
Upon this abandoned legacy of a race;
Upon this lost world.

It will slowly erode, it will slowly disappear;
Until the ground from where it came reclaims this book without words;
This song with no melody;
This stage without players;
This ancient world;
Lost as surely by us as it was forfeited by its children;
Who no longer believed that it was real.