Alas my dear
I am still the Ozymandias.
These stones
are the only thing I remember of myself,
and the sandpaper of winds,
that have not sanded me yet to the end.
My importance clung on to this big dome of charisma
I am plunged but still clinched into the dream of an adamant king,
the pillars of imperturbable stones,
in onslaughts of these horrendous hordes of sand,
in the
hourglass of age.
I am still flaunting
upon these tempests
scratching the remains of once unremitting posture.
I am still the bite
half chewed
between the jaws of this desert,
that would not go through the throat
of this sand-machine,
I still cannot surrender to this ocean of soft grains.
My giant head can't succumb to this subdual of unity,
this consonance of identities,
these fangs that wolf everything stands.
