Sand of Egypt

A stone cutter raised his mallock high and cleaved the rock again. Upon sculptures and great works his product was to be made. He cleaned the sweat with his brutish, stout hands. For this meager excuse of a man was only a cutter. No more to be contemplated upon pride's eyes.

And yet he knew his work to be important. For as uncleaved as block of marble or stone could have been made an error might a life have meant.

Was he pitiful? Did his station on the vast kingdom humble him? Nay.

For he was full ire and sensless temper. A cruelty that made anyone tremble, a power that made the animals shake in fear, he might have bee much, but surely enough, people knew, sensed

But sometimes though, sometimes he wondered.

He wondered and stood with his hands on the wall, his face to the back of his house, on the midlde of a night with crickleting crickets, that within the dark alcoves of his mind, what all the petty anger and bottled wrath had turnd him into.

A mere insect to be squashed…

At the end of the day I am not poor, or abused, for this particular king is a gentle ruler. Yet.

Yet.

Yet he was angry.

Angry, mad, out of control.

So, so it was that he had decided to do something about that, something about that anger, something to allay the clangour of his mind.

In one week he killed many a person and his doubt.

This particular work lasted seven more days, three of them contemplation while an idea came onto his head, fully formed, the rest he sketched down the careful calculation and the remaining details.

During the other fou on his alotted time, with the sectioned blocks that were assigned for him, he cut the rock, hewn and cut and molded the pillars and the wedges and the blocks. Shaped them wrong. Dressed them wrong and hewn the askew in most imperceptile fashion.

By itself each mistake, each deviationon on the rock's contour was not enough to make a change. But when aligned, when put together all the limestone blocks thus made would tremble. They would tremble and slide.

On the inaugural day of the great pyramid he stood on the dark mouth of the center cave in the edifice's edge. Barely seen above the walls.

The wicked man with the small soul stood with his smile in full vigour, as if each corner of his face was stitched to the sides. Glowing white each teeth, the light from the dentin shining in the darkness.

He was smiling, smiling above the other ants.

This person and his tiny ego, smilling as all the pyramid crumbled and collapsed.


We resume our story thousand of years later. Thousand of years later when I can walk barely seen in a maze of titans.

My titans. Glazed in yellow and white, or in a blue, celestial disguise, invisilbe to the naked eye. The glass that covers you, my monster friends, will make you all the more formidable.

Bouncing all the light from the magic orb, with skeletons of rich concrete and orange steel at their cores.

The city is their natural habitat, for this lumbering monsters are frozen in time.

And as you can see the sturdy battle of any given giant against senseless nature and wildlife is counted in aeons. They face the wind and storm. They face the eathquake and the snow. They face the mighty tempest of time untold. And they will fall only, centuries later, in a yawning crumble of rust, or in the wicked embrace of cold and envious men.

For most of them will go into fantastic blazes of fierce light, when they so are spared from their original futures. The skyscrpaers and bridges spared from that birthright of old age. The broken windows their white beards.

Instead half of the buildings will be gone in one momentous night.

Burnt in the silent echo, shaking to foundation in infrasonic splendour, in their debutante night a red dress of fire seen far away from miles, torn in plasma and blazes for five white nights.

The terrorist attacks and recontructions, implosion and explosions will meet each other on a sliding, unstable and temporal struggle. The rays of civlizations will not be smothered so easily, so the embers of defiance will fight. The fierce forces that take away and give birth to the lumering giants of those same white nights.

And I approach the decayed city which the whicked men destroyed, where once powerful civilizations shaped the world.

The selfsame civlizations where the true Tower of Babel was finished, and we climbed to the skies, screaming in delight on pillars of pure and white fire.

Whole waterfall-tall buildings taking off, off and up, there within them the voices of a globe-wide electronic quire, raging on a landscape of immaculate, electromagnetic black. Shining and gray, powered by hope and the bright, throwing off the sounds of a thousand souls into an empty, uncaring sky.

They were man-made stars those that were born in those days, in those many, many days, held aloft for an eternity if so we desired. Each man-made star to mark a beauty uncoutanble, a little smudge of pride on the patchwork of a breathless universe.

They will drift and leave us behind, I can see it on top of my dune with my little golden spyglass.

They have not yet rusted like everything else. They have not yet decayed.

And I a lonely survivor of the greatest fight, I hold my hands in supplication, begging the star not go. I fall to my knees and beg, wishing and willing for it to stay. To remain with us.

For all the offspring of all those souls, such as the bitter builders or other petty thugs have not done so. They have died along with us, they should have known, that to crush civilzation with their, stupid, pathetic rancour they paid the prize of starvation; as the very society they smothered died with them.

And I, a mere shitstain on the world, soon to be forgotten too, can only stand on the desert sand and see the the satellitles drift by.

I can only see them pass us by.