"Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
-Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

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It stands lone; a mockery of life.
Nary a soul to remember his name.
E'en through the suffering and strife,
his title lost to time -not to fame.

A feeble man once sought my wealth;
Strayed far from where he was born.
But t'was not gold nor silver, his mind and health;
A mind cracked and worn, beaten and torn.
His only wish was that of who seeks death.

Rooted in the floor, his knees were,
Begging, as it were, not for alms,
For he who asks of others was one of care.
This man was not like the others, open were his palms;
His one desire was not of a martyr, for no such flair-
Sits higher upon the throne of history,
Than the ambitions, to be built from masonry.

Hours had gone by, yet he was still.
He had not spoken his needs in words;
The wood would creek, his hands would shiver.
But his eyes, they were, of one who understood-
To suffer life and strife, it is the spirit and will-
Of man, to venture and to walk the roads.
Some bear the stone, some fight the river-
But he who makes worth, was he who could.