K Hassan
O ye, Muse of men, sing to me:
Where bones bear the stains of centuries.
While Oath-bound hearts cross dust-choked battlefields.
Time slips, like wuthering wind, through cracked fingers;
Yet, unconscious, amid the crowd we march
upon the earth, which bleeding never sate
Let your immortal melody flow
like silvered light, cutting the darkness,
Guiding me through shadowed corridors,
beyond the star upon star
Let your immortal melody flow
like silvered light, cutting the darkness,
Guiding me through shadowed corridors,
beyond the star upon star
where weary feet strike against
the shattered bones of worlds,
Which have flickered—then vanished—into the void.
Let your immortal melody flow—
Silvered flame through the darkness,
Guiding me through shadowed corridors,
Beyond star upon star,
Into the endless chambers of night.
Each night we kneel where spear-shadows bleed to dusk,
Casting counsel like stones into wells of ash—
Gods forgotten, their names frayed threads,
Time stalls, the sky a loom unturned.
Among us, the wise and weathered—
bearded as ancient oaks,
shaped by storm and shadow—
speak in riddles curling like smoke
around pillars broken by silence.
No prophecy comes, only whispers:
warnings tangled in memory
like nets abandoned to the tide;
hints of carnage yet to come,
names swallowed by sea waves
We bury our dead beneath a moon that silvers the plains—
not with hymn or harp, but with rough hands and hurried silence.
Their eyes stay open, staring into the infinite abyss,
into the indifferent crown of the night.
Blood on their brows gleams like rubies in the last light,
when a laughter rings out—
neither human nor beast, but older than the earth’s bones,
loud as bronze struck by thunder, echoing beneath our feet.
“Behold!” it cries, and breath is caught in dread.
Like a storm splitting the sea, awe and terror seize the ranks.
“Holy Mother of God,” one whispers, fingers white on his blade.
“Get ready,” croaks another, voice raw with broken prayers.
Again the word—“Behold!”—falls,
a spear through hope and flesh.
So men cling to names like shields against the void—
“Holy Mother of God,”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Jesus Christ.”
Earth yawns beneath us, cracked open by our march,
But no chariot wheels flame to life, no steeds of dawn arise—
Only the names of the forgotten, etched in ash and bone
At the broken rim of the world’s endless night.
The veiled sky turns her face, silent as fates weaving the unseen—
Yet oath-bound, bronze-hearted,
We march, we fight, we halt—
Driven by fate’s iron thread,
Haunted by voices rising from dust and dream,
Echoing, fading—
As all men do,
Beneath the responsive sky—
Beneath a throne not made of gold,
But of breath and silence,
Where whispered prayers hang like stars,
And the gaze that watches waits—
Neither wrathful nor kind,
But vast as eternity itself—
Bearing witness to the march of men,
Whose feet ascend beyond earth’s ruin,
Whose hearts beat still beneath the throne of gods.
***
O ye, Muse of men, linger yet,
And carry me through the spiral of time,
Through the first flickering hearths of clay and bone,
Through the stone circles and blood-swept plains,
Through the dusty streets of empires fallen,
And the silent corridors of cities yet to rise.
Bones bear the stain of centuries,
Yet beneath each fracture, each scar,
The human hand moves still—
Carving, kneeling, shaping, offering,
Not to gods, but to life itself,
The pulse of thought, the rhythm of hope,
The sacred act of persistence.
Oath-bound hearts crossed dust-choked battlefields,
From flint-tipped spears to the echoes of cannon,
From the desert sands to frozen rivers,
Yet in every fleeting lull, in every whispered pause,
Humanity performed rites older than memory—
Hands pressed to earth, bread broken, fire lit,
Words spoken into the wind, gestures of remembrance,
All acts sustaining the fragile thread of being.
Through bronze-lit haze we march,
Through iron-smoked cities, through neon nights,
Past the laughter of children, past the quiet breath of olives,
Past the remnants of towers crumbled to dust,
Where names carved in stone, in ash, in data streams,
Still murmur against oblivion.
Each night we kneel where shadowed spears bleed into dusk,
Casting counsel like stones into wells of ash,
Tracing lines of memory through the sands of vanished epochs,
From hunter-gatherers to cyber pilgrims,
From scribes of papyrus to coders of infinite streams.
Among us, the wise and weathered—
Bearded as ancient oaks, or bald with years,
Shaped by storm and shadow—
Speak in riddles curling like smoke around pillars broken by rain and silence.
No prophecy comes, only whispers—
Warnings tangled in memory like nets abandoned to tide,
Hints of carnage yet to come, names devoured by dust,
And yet rituals persist:
The breaking of bread, the raising of hands,
The marking of earth with gesture and breath.
We bury the dead beneath moonrise silvering the plains,
Not with hymn nor harp, but with rough hands and hurried silence,
Eyes unshuttered, staring into the infinite abyss,
Into the indifferent crown of the night sky.
Blood on brows gleams—rubies in the last dying light,
While laughter rises,
Neither human nor beast, but older than bones,
Loud as bronze struck by thunder, echoing beneath our feet.
“Behold!” it cries, and breath halts in dread,
Like storms splitting seas, awe and terror seizing the ranks.
One whispers, fingers white on the blade,
Another croaks, voice raw with broken counsel.
Again falls the word—“Behold”—
Piercing hearts like a spear through hope and flesh.
Men cling to names, gestures, and memory as shields against the void—
Fragments of custom, ritual, and human awe,
Symbols older than memory itself,
Anchoring souls across the spiral of time.
Earth yawns beneath us, cracked by our march,
Yet no chariot wheels ignite, no steeds of dawn arise—
Only the names of the forgotten, etched in ash and bone
At the jagged rim of the world’s endless night.
See the earliest fires flaring in the caves,
Hands tracing patterns of beasts and stars alike,
See the pyramids rising through sweat and faith in permanence,
See the inked manuscripts of forgotten scholars,
The carved stones of saints unknown,
The hammering of machinery in dawn-lit factories,
The click of keys in neon-lit rooms,
The silent orbiting of probes beyond human sight,
All acts a single pulse of human striving,
A rhythm older than the stars themselves.
The Muse turns her gaze upon us,
Silent as fates weaving the unseen,
Yet oath-bound, bronze-hearted,
We march, we build, we kneel, we rise—
Driven by fate’s iron thread,
Haunted by voices rising from dust and dream,
Echoing, fading,
As all men do,
Beneath the responsive sky—
Beneath a throne not of gold, but of breath and silence,
Where gestures hang like stars,
And the gaze that watches waits—
Neither wrathful nor kind,
But vast as eternity itself—
Bearing witness to the march of men,
Whose feet ascend beyond earth’s ruin,
Whose hearts beat still beneath the spiral of time.
O ye, Muse of men, sing to me—
Not of the divine, nor wrath, nor grace,
But of us, of memory, of ritual, of endurance,
Of the sacred act that is wholly ours,
Whose pulse threads through the first fire,
Through empire, industry, and digital sky,
Through the laughter of children, the mourning of mothers,
The silence of scholars, the courage of strangers,
Binding us to the earth, to each other, to eternity itself,
And leaving a mark upon the infinite silence of the cosmos
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