I see the Place from my home.
Six concrete pillars and a dome.
Deserted, it had stood cold and dark
with stray dogs that roamed and barked.
The men now chisel a design like lace
cutting through the rocks with ease.
The sun beats down upon their backs.
They sweat and strain but do not slack.
Slowly, they work on the shapes –
the feet, the legs, the arms, the face.
Then, the stone takes a form.
It has now turned into a God.
The lattice work covers the walls.
The roof with the flagged spire is tall
and lit with little lights that twinkle.
For, the Place is now a holy temple.
As I reflect on what is and was
I wake up to a realization of sorts.
The twists and turns that make our Fate
Are just games Time constantly plays.
wordsofhope 