Ziggurat Poem by gershon hepner

Are you the man who pulled the trigger at
the top of Bethel's Bab-ilani’s ziggurat?
If so, pray tell, why are the heathens ragin'
today in Arabic as in Akkadian
they used to rage against Divinity
the Hebrews claimed loved only their vicinity?
Are there some answers I may hear amid
the crowds that throng around the pyramid,
and if so will you publish them in papers
and post them on the Western Wall like capers
before you reach Moriah, ever distant
as Solomonic temples non-existent?
Do not evade the question with a sick tease,
and, claiming to be victor, say vae victis,
while casting skeptically a bigger figure at
the Wall than any Babylonian ziggurat.

Inspired by Victor Hurowitz’s poem:

Let's climb up the Ziqqurat
Whose stages number seven;
We'll have to start out early,
It's a long way up to heaven.

So meet me at the base,
Founded deeply in the earth;
Shall I race you to the top,
Or just let you get there first?

Let's go up real, real slowly,
climb the ramps and walk the stairs,
and watch the colors change,
as we ascend up through the air.

Ground floor is white, the next is black,
And then come red and blue,
Like a rainbow made of bricks,
Sun baked, dried through and through.

As we ascend each stage,
We'll circumambulate each stop,
Just to catch our breath,
It's a long way to the top.

The stages shrink in size,
As we pass them one by one;
At the top stands the shahuru,
When we reach it we'll be done

It might take us half the morning,
But the time will surely fly,
for soon we'll reach the very top,
and the glistening horns that touch the sky.

And when we reach the top,
We'll pause and look around,
And like gods we'll watch the tiny people,
down below us on the ground.

10/31/06