by Nick Gisburne
The guard is ancient. Always, he’s asleep,
The company too poor to pay a pro.
Beyond his broken snores, disguised, I creep,
Behind the crates of carvings, to the crow.
He stares in silence, sees inside my soul,
A riddle of antiquity, a rock.
A precious relic, he alone is whole,
The last, perhaps the greatest, of his flock.
The hands of heathens touch him every day,
Enslaved by superstition, backward, blind.
Revealed at last, I come to steal away
A talisman the gods themselves designed.
The guard is ancient. Had I wondered why,
My hopes would not be dead, and nor would I.
