The Victory Stele Of Narām-Sîn Poem by Ernest Hilbert

This lecture insults the king. Is he merely
One more item to be addressed as if not
Present or no longer alive? His force
Is renewed by death. He knows what is yearly
Replanted will grow best from mud and rot,
What pours long enough returns to a source.
The surly king storms out, eager for rebirth,
Quick dawn from darkness, but this equinox
Is one of misalliance, disarray.
There is no eclipse. No magic is worth
This much. No longer the waking and long walks,
No longer the sun to etch the skies, weigh
The hours with consequence, mark the slow
End of things. Not now. His is a sour star,
A sick land, thimble ziggurats by which flow
Veins of black space, singing, and no longer far.