The Architect

Architects -Walter Rossman In these ruins, a peculiar place within the rubble, sanctity abounds here and stand you will, straight, respectful as you see the shattered idols of a previous people erased. one finds an engraved tablet rustic yet visible enough sees one, in wondrous artful calligraphy that would’ve been etched by some creative, trained hand that knew not its work would outlive its precedents. In it, one reads “Forever have I waited for this dingy city of mine, to see new eyes and it takes, sadly, the eyes of art to see for itself the utter monstrosity” and you pick the rubble, anew now with purpose that that great hand wrote amid sweat and blood, amid tiring hours of work the future of the entire city. As you dig, you find the toolbox, filled to the brim its contents never seeing the grit of stone or the sparks off metals, never have they borne witness to the midday sun and the perspiring architect who creates art, unappreciated, and we all, all of us men who descended upon the rubble are filled with purpose we grab what we can find. The broken columns and shattered stone, remnants of marble and disgraced statue-heads are now lighter to hold the rubble seems to clear off beneath it lies, the indomitable will of a poor, poor artist, with eyes that could see far more than anyone of the doomed city, we all bathe in that will, we are now inspired by art, art that knows no bounds, of cities perished, little is spoken it’s what remains that matters be it so, for that noble man we’ll create a masterpiece and name it, “Architect City”.