Oh, hundred millions of son of Adam
Erring around the sands of time,
Tell me, whether you heard of the city: Thebeste,
The city that claims – merits my rhyme.
Now, the hundred gates of Thebes
Luxoriate his wife near to Tunis,
On the non-Egyptian land of talking stones,
Tebessa, the Algerian metropolis.
Lo! Gaius Cornelius had sung of Thevest,
Out of the Empire’s admiration
Since there’s no motherland bartered by seste’ri;
A muse that breaths divine inspiration.
All what the time has left testamentally,
The archs, pylons and attics,
Are no more than white stones of a sordid realm,
Hiding all the one-time wisdom’s and ethics.
Now, where is Minerva from the temple?,
The ruins made bed for Mani,
The centuries bartered the pillars of brightness
By ages of darkness; but by how many?
No! Where are the words of the epic poets,
Hanging – glaring on Solomon’s Walls,
Prophesying the coming preposterous epidemic
From what every civilization falls.
How could I make noise on a foreign podium
That is surveyed by no ear,
Why would I even raise my voice to the wretches;
Whom were numb when Caracalla was here.
Nay one hundred and more and one gates
Could make me to enter the city;
However, I’ve noticed my White Lotus there
That is the source of my felicity.
Lo! The sands of time blew me inspiration,
To learn the city and its ancient history
That feeds my mortal clay only with white stones,
But my spirit with an eternal flourishing story.