Glorious is this wall-stone
    broken by Fate;
a city burst,
    the works of giants wasted away.
The roofs have collapsed,
    the towers are in ruins,
the barred gates gone,
    the cement encrusted with hoarfrost,
vacant roofs
    cut down, crumbled
and eaten away by age.
    In Earth's grip have
the master-builders
    decayed, passed out of memory
in the Earth's jealous grasp,
    until a hundred generations
have come and gone.

Long has this wall endured
though lichen-grey and tarnished red,
    stronger than its makers,
standing still under storms
    though its tallest arches have crumbled.
It has endured,
    though cut down,
penetrated,
and buffeted by grinding weapons;
still there is the shine
    of celestial joys,
    of the skillful ancient work,
    though caked and crusted with mire.
Here is a wonder:
    in the mind swiftly devised,
ingeniously, and with rings
    bound bravely
and wondrously together
    was this foundation trammeled.

Happy were their homes,
    bath houses numerous,
gables high and ornamented,
    streets busy with activity,
mead halls,
    men enjoying life to the fullest
until Fate, strong and pitiless,
    changed all that.
Slaughtered men fell widely,
    the day of pestilence came,
and conquering death destroyed all
    the valiant men;
their fortress of defence became
    a waste place,
and their city a ruin.
    Even its rebuilders perished
making war amongst themselves.
    Thus is this gallery decayed,
and these red, curved
    tiles separated and fallen
from its vaulted dome.
    Fallen down to the ground,
crumbled to the mountains,
    where once many a warrior,
blithe and cheerful,
    splendrously adorned
with gilt armor,
    proud and ruddy,
gazed on treasures,
    on silver, on gem stones,
on prosperity, on possessions,
    on precious stones,
and on this their bright city
    of a wide kingdom.

Here a stone house once stood,
    and here a hot stream cast
its surge widely:
    a wall caught all
in its bright bosom,
    and there the bath was
hot on the hearth.
    This was a convenience.
Then was allowed to pour
on banks of hoary stones,
    the hot streams
until    *    *    *    *    *    *
         *    *    *    *    *    *

[Cætera Codicus mutilatione desunt]

Copyright © Eric F.J. Martin, 1999