Shakespearean sonnet: "Voices of the Stones"

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Voices of the Stones

These stones sing their dust to my eyes,

veined as they always were like sullen boys,

a long-worn fame their consolation prize.

They bury us with ashes cindered from their former joys.

Those pyroclastic lips of Pompeii's ghosts

speak so fondly of their searing death -

with shells as hollow as an empire's boasts,

and words dissolved, mere molecules of breath:

"We fire-frozen dead could not foresee our fate

but grant you a vision of your future doom.

You proud consumers, are you always late?

There is something that you can't consume.

Vesuvius will wait for us again,

like a patient lover in the rain."

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