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A Sonnet for Palmyra
December 21, 2016
Above my baseball cap, the sun poured light
upon the stretch of arid, starving sand,
a golden urn suspended at the height
of gods and kings who once ruled ancient lands.
It juxtaposed the sneakers on my heels,
emblazoning the stones, once wrought with gold;
I contemplated fortune’s mystic wheel,
the spinning course no oracle foretold.
Beside me, jaded ghosts of caravans
resigned their kohl-lined eyes in wistful rue,
longed for the age before fate’s fickle plan,
and wept for glory’s fading residue.
For chance and fate now spin the skies with fire,
and forsake the pillars of Palmyra.
© Taylor M., Pelham, AL
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I visited Syria over my winter break, about two months before the Revolution started. My favorite part of the trip was visiting Palmyra, an incredible ancient city that has since half-crumbled into ruins but still stands. Over the last several years, parts of Palmyra have been destroyed in the war. This is a mixture of my memories of the city and my reflection on how part of history has been lost.