Lettered in decorative filigree,
in a language as old as history,
carved along into ancient stone,
words that cut me to the very bone;
a message of archaic and ancient redundancy,
written in a lost language, once spoken globally,
this was no permanent resting place for the dead,
just a slice out of time to get right in the head;

there were spoken aloud then, unexpectedly,
words that were heard by the dark heart in me,
in a voice that rang with blood as mine own,
urging my feet to keep trudging towards home;

“You cannot decide now to give up and lie down…”
at the very same moment my face hit the ground,
“it’s not up to you to resign or to retreat…
do what you must to act and move on, immediately…”
The words seemed to be spoken exclusively,
to those of old who died down on their’ knees,
no mistaking such an undertaking is not meant for me,
so I rise in rebellion and keep shuffling my feet.