Repetition

We strolled along the ancient path that day. There was silence in the ruins, but also the call of birds. Small buttercup yellow flowers – their blossoms freshly opened—greeted us, as we admired them and gazed beyond to the remaining Roman walls of Ephesus, once a great city.

Mosaic panels still flowed artfully along the street front of that single remaining library wall. The city, once vibrant, was silent, unpeople for centuries.

I paused, caught between the past and this moment, recalling an innocent time when I believed my country ‘tis of thee —before the grip of tyranny— might always stand, yet recognized the strong entanglement of power, plunging it downward with breathless speed, and I thought, we too may fall like this Roman city, sooner than expected in our own arrogance, toppled in quick time by earth’s raw intelligence.

The yellow flowers moved so slightly on the breeze as I stood helplessly watching, recognizing the weary cycle of human history, caught in the knots of our own making, again and again.