A silent history exists

In the midst of ancient statues.

Empty, staring, hollow eyes

That cannot see,

Stone mouths with stony muted tongues

That cannot say

What the answers to the mysteries may be.

Where is the Holy Grail?

Where is the stone where Jacob laid his head

And had the dream of the ladder up to heaven?

Where is the mystical tree of life?

The city of Shambala?

Where is the Incan city made of gold 

Called El Dorado?

Only the statues and the shadows know,

And maybe the ancient pharaohs,

Whose ancient remains lie quietly in

Their brightly painted sarcophagi,

Screaming silently from deep within their ornately carved, treasure laden tombs.

And only the pristinely cut hieroglyphs 

Carved on the granite obelisks

In stately grammatically correct form cartouche 

Render the Royal Names,

If only we could correctly translate it.

-jenn