the Pompeian musician

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The bustling streets,
The people live on,
Carried in a current,
That their ancestors had build on.

The streets were as crowded that's everyday routine,
The sky was so clear,
And we know that Jupiter had seen.

On the world of chaos,
All around him now,
This man had his own bubble,
Beside all the sharp rubble.

The current of anxiety and paper valour,
Seems to pass him,
But won't touch him like snow.
What he is doing is playing his lyre,
With a melodious hum.

Humming the sounds of the angles,
Who he had never heard before.
Singing the praises of gods,
Whom too he had never known before.
But he had an image,
An image carved in his heart,
Like the mighty pyramids,
It was visible even in the dark,
The image of a debauched god,
That's all he could see,
Yet he had to sing praises,
To the one who had envied his need.

So that day he stopped,
Stopped singing praises to the gods,
He sang of virtue,
And this time of Eros,
He sang of fate that stood pure and tall,
And the hope that had never left,
From the first casket of terror.

He started singing from the morning,
Trying to teach people what life is.
He started singing from the morning,
Without a moment rest.

People of all ages found calm,
And they knew he knew the best.

Philosophy in a love song,
War in a flower,
Tears in the dry sand and
Infinity inside the empty hour,
He sang of the things that were forbidden to speak,
As it only gave hope to the weak,
But he did it no less as the gods never cared,
If the humans didn't why would they even bother a stare.

He was singing of living,
When mighty Artemis came to see,
The beautiful voice that wanted all to leave.
The goddess wanted to keep his heart,
For a true poet is very hard to part,
But the musician played on,
Not a bother in the world,
As people ran with pillows up high,
He sang them a sweet lullaby,
His smile never fading,
His lips ever moving,
Preserved he remained on the ashes,
That surrounded him,
His final thoughts were only this,
That people here atleast felt a little bliss.

We found him later,
Years too late,
But atleast he died a bit better,
With a smile on his face,
And a drooling eye on his lyre,
With his fingers in place.

He died how he wanted,
Teaching people then,
How it is to live,
And then again to not,
He was teaching them then,
He's still teaching us now.

The Dead Revolutionary

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