These I assume were words so deeply meant
They cut themselves in stone for permanent
Like trouble in the brow above the eyes.
“Take Care to Sell Your Horse before
He Dies The Art of Life Is Passing Losses on.’
The city saying it was Ctesiphon,
Which may a little while by war and trade
Have kept from being caught with the decayed,
Infirm, worn-out, and broken on its hands,
But judging by what little of it stands,
Not even the ingenuities of debt
Could save it from its losses being met
Sand has been thrusting in the square of door
Across the tessellation of the floor,
And only rests, a serpent on its chin,
Content with contemplating, taking in,
Till it can muster breath inside a hall
To rear against the inscription on the wall.