The Temple of the Sun
The fallen court—the Temple of the Sun—
Stands vast and solemn, its great rites undone.
The dispossessed now wander through its halls,
Where broken shafts lean near the crumbling walls.
Its pilasters, with elegance, remain;
Their beauty by the desert still sustained.
Here slaves once burned in sacrificial flame,
While chiefs with sword upheld the temple’s name.
Then mind’s eye turns to yet another sight—
A wall that winds beyond the mountain’s height.
Its turrets crowned, its battlements arrayed,
Its path through peaks and valleys boldly laid.
A fortress vast, for deadly purpose made,
Its stones stand firm, though time itself has frayed.
Death in iron, mortal hands never planned—
the fall, this monument to power—grand.
“One final work,” the spirit softly cries,
“Where death itself seems distant, Gods defys—
Behold—the tomb where worshipers now are,
The warrior poised beneath the fallen star.”
His breath is drawn, his shadow meets the foe,
The tyrant’s gaze reflects eternal woe.
In silent stone, no eloquence shall speak—
So grave, so still—blessed be the meek.
WoPoLi 
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