king midas

Fragile Grass

I stand on top of the tumulus (burial mound) of a once-great Phrygian king. This earthen Ozymandias has no sneer, but rises, tired and worn, from a sea of gold. Hills roll away from my feet and disappear over the horizon. I tell myself again, this is modern Turkey. It might as well be Eastern Colorado. The wind whistles just the same.