I am history .
Who discovered fire
and forged iron .
The earth trembles
and empires collapse.
Call of the wild ...
Island lost in the ocean
and populated by geants .
I am history .
Who crowns the conqueror.
Groaning under the tyrant's rule,
by appealing to divine mercy ...
I am lie and illusions .
Courtesans ,jesters ,condottieri.
Dagger,venom ,passion ...
Crows courting the hanged beggar.
I am the Smell of musk ,
sweat of harvest ,
epidemic multitude
dark bubo.
Grimacing Quasimodo ...
I am the cathedral that defies time
and the ageless temple.
The serene gaze of Buddha .
This desert rider who speaks to god.
I am history .
Who sends a message to the stars .
Unleashing the fire of hell,
and this sublime symphony
that travels through the spheres....
Is there anywhere
the freshness of an orchard
where I could rest ,
without fear of a poisonous fruit ?
I, the child of a story ...
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: July 26th, 2025 01:41
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Ellen Marsell
Online)
Comments2
I have always loved history and as I grew older became disenchanted finding that it is a changing picture that was first written by the conqueror from their point of view and distorted through the years by each dynasty that had their own needs, often the original no longer available. Or it was assembled from pieces of pottery and chard bones by the surmises of archeologists as a jigsaw puzzle missing pieces and with some that don't fit. No longer the romantic thing it once was I see it as swimming in murky waters poorly defined some say it is a behemoth, others a mermaid. Maybe it is just an old submerged log. The poem is beautiful and so well worded it is a fave
We all carry a memory of the universal history.
But everything remains hypothetical in terms of how it feels...
History as a being - tired, tragic, searching for a place to rest from its own burden. An impressive piece.
If the story isn't over it's certainly very tired ...
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