Amidst the rain and fog we looked down upon
The stone corpse of our once great Lady,
Shattered into pieces, her pride long gone,
Her body lay strewn, the skies dismal, shady.
Her defiant right arm was nowhere to be seen,
The book on her left had turned to ashen soot
No crown sat on the head of our fallen Queen,
Leaving kings of oppression to roam afoot.
The wind began to blow on the barren land,
Dust and soil obscuring our Lady broken.
Being buried, she would never again stand,
For the silent masses, wronged and unspoken.
Surrounding our ruined sovereign Galatea,
Were many mounds of eagle skulls and bones,
Stacked as high as the mountains in Asia,
Where atop the Sirens could claim their thrones.
We weeped for the eagles as we did our idol,
The last of their kinds both purged, destroyed.
As the Man with the sickle, who collects his toll,
Laid waste to the fields, metal forests overjoyed.
But the torch, the torch, where did it go?
That emblem of the eternal Olympic flame?
Will the man who find it end this Age of Woe,
Or will our shattered Liberty remain the same?
Until then, our venerable Lady will have no songs
Sung to her unless they be that of mourning,
We had the duty to bring our idol to where she belonged,
And so we hauled her pieces, hopelessness aborning.
We brought our symbol of freedom next to the sea,
That seemed to beckon our Lady forth into its depths,
And dumped each piece, letting each sink slowly,
Into the abyss, as we all watched with sobs and shaky breaths.
Beyond that blackened ocean of filth, plastic, and oil,
We could see the mangled towers that were once a source of pride
To us– and we knew that, despite all our heavy toil,
Through war and ignorance, our Fathers’ nation had died.
