He stood alone, the stars grown dim,
One hand on rectitude’s thin limb.
No wrath, no fire, no final plea—
Just silence in eternity.
He wept not for what man became,
But for the dream that bore his name.
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A visualization, sepia toned, on a high, remote plinth....arm draped around rectitude. ....overlooking the ash and ruin.
Devastating, with a curious beauty , yet a tragedy where resignation and sorrow entwine for the lost ideals of what, once, might have been.
M.