These terraces and pillars are pitted with <br />the dying screams of generations <br />and where I sit base instincts <br />grew with every final pained breath. <br /> <br />Here within Rome’s stone centre <br />on display the glory of her name <br />and yet the grim reminder of <br />the history of her lowest ebb <br /> <br />These stones that echo to our steps <br />once rang to blood hazed roars <br />whilst in counterpoint there raised <br />a song of praise and supplication. <br /> <br />Here within this pained theatre <br />The stuttered beating of a dying heart <br />and all the Gods of Rome <br />did became, recognisable as clay <br /> <br />Within this ring of ancient stones <br /> upon the plain of blood soak sand <br />here in the torment and the pain <br />a stone ring became a crown of thorns <br /> <br />here against this backdropp of <br />a civilisation’s death throes <br />came forth in fiery baptism the light <br /> which brought eternal truth. <br /> <br />Held in trust within this open space <br />The answered prayers <br />Of those who turned <br />A Crown from Thorns to Gold.<br /><br />Bill Mitton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-eternal-circle/
