And there it stood, the great old monument,
Below the vast, everlasting firmament.
Its face, washed by a hundred rains; tanned by a thousand suns.
It still stands, immobile and resolute,
Mocking at the test of time.
Its beauty, as always- divine,
Though the days of pomp are gone
Though festoons no long adorn.
Its not a structure, but poetry.
Not carved, but composed by a hundred toiling hands.
Written not, from the tip of their quills,
But etched, by the edge of their chisels.
How many cold winters has it seen?
How many summers there have been?
How many raids has it witnessed?
No one can tell, as it stands quiescent.
The bodies of the hands might have withered away,
To death, they might have given way.
But, such beauty and splendour that they have made,
Surely has made their souls to stay.
Minstrels still sing its praise,
None who set eyes, move their gaze.
A creation, as such, shall never again be seen
It goes on to prevail for posterity.