Babylon Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

Old Babylon, a name of might,
A city bathed in golden light.
Stories told, in ancient lore,
Of what it was, and is no more.

Isaiah spoke, long years before,
Of Cyrus coming to its door.
The river's flow, a sudden trick,
The gates left dry, defeat came quick.

Jeremiah cried, a somber sound,
'No people there, on holy ground,
But beasts will roam, where towers stood,
A barren land, misunderstood.'

And so it is, the ruins lie,
Beneath the vast Iraqi sky.
No bustling crowds, no trading cries,
Just whispered tales of ancient skies.

The Jews were held, in captive chains,
For seventy years, on dusty plains.
Then freedom came, a Persian hand,
To lead them back to their own land.

The Tower soared, a reaching dream,
Etemenanki, it would seem.
To touch the heavens, touch the sky,
But pride brought ruin, by and by.

In Revelation's mystic art,
Babylon plays a shadowed part.
A symbol then, a symbol now,
Of power's fall, and broken vow.

The rise and fall, a lesson clear,
Of empires built on pride and fear.
Babylon's echo, soft and low,
Reminds us still, how powers go.


T.M.Solvang