Man has envisioned, concocted, created,  
Built and bought with blood 
A myriad of monuments, an endless, torrential flood 
Of mementos, reminders, convincers of his dominance 
O'er this wretched sphere of mud. 
Indeed, 'tis an abominable, detestable, near unbearable blow 
To his inflated, pompous ego; the unalterable fact, you know, 
That his dominance is limited 
By a pallid thing called death 
With whom he must inevitably go. 
This indomitable thing called human 
Cannot choose concerning birth. 
Not place, not time nor station 
Nor standard by which his worth within the masses 
May be decided when he is sown upon the earth. 
With all his depth and intellect, 
His greatness to display, 
He's but a child 
who's given a set of blocks, some clay... 
A construction set of sorts with which to build, 
To play. 
And yet, he deems himself the master, 
Conqueror over all, 
Reeking in self-esteem; 
Wallowing in a spectral fantasy that he is lord and ruler, 
Emperor supreme. 
Never grasping in his shell of clay 
That he is subject only... 
Far from king. 
In this sad state with obstinate gait he treads  
beneath his feet 
All that's worthy, all that counts, 
all that makes life sweet, 
And stacks his blocks and molds his clay, 
And builds his own retreat. 
He creates, within his fantasies, great monuments. 
And in his dreams 
He erects the latter on marble base,  
And with genius caulks the seams. 
Then he thumbs lapels and boasts and blows 
About the greatness of his schemes. 
And so it is that man the great 
(If such he can be called) 
Sets out to build great cities, 
Polished, paved and walled; 
Laid out neat by block and street 
And buildings, huge and tall. 
Then sits he back in great armchair 
And gloats, and admires his feats, 
And lays at night concocting more between his silken sheets. 
And thus, 
In smug retirement and vain precepts, 
He sleeps.

 


 

'Tis one such man upon the which our story now expounds; 
A man of great achievement, an egotist, 
Whose audacity knew no bounds: 
A man convinced; 
A man to whom mendacious dreams of grandeur made the rounds. 
His aspiration to preponderate was totally unsurpassed. 
He fancied him the greatest, 
And of deed and word,  
The last. 
For this reason he was selected 
By the forces he denied, 
To be de-gassed. 
He was Nehemiah Jones,  
An atheist, 
A firm believer in non-belief 
Who constantly, emphatically asserted 
That man was creator-in-chief 
Who came and went without repent,
And death was a random thief. 
Nehemiah possessed a propensity for surmounting  
The greatest heights, 
Which afforded him an unobstructed view 
Of all the numerous sites 
Upon which stood his colossal feats,
His monuments, 
His delights. 
'Twas a day such as this,  
While he was enthralled with the splendor of mankind, 
That Nehemiah was visited, though totally unaware, 
By a form from the divine; 
A realm to which, as we know, our subject was utterly blind. 
The specter incarnated then 
(In the accepted form of men) 
In Nehemiah's rear 
And embarked upon his heavenly task by emitting guttural sounds 
As if to clear his throat 
And note that Jones was aware of his presence 
'Ere he ventured near. 
But so engrossed was Jones 
In ecstatic admiration of his glorious panorama 
That he did not hear the sounds, 
And thus was oblivious to the drama 
That was destined to change his views and renew his outlook 
On heavenly phenomena. 
So the angel employed bolder tactics 
To make his presence known 
And loudly crushed through the brittle brush 
To the side of Mister Jones 
Upon whom he laid a hand 
Of heavy flesh and bone. 
"Egad!"  Cried Jones. 
And spinning 'round, found the vision’s eyes, 
Not knowing that he looked upon 
An angel in disguise. 
"You startled me!"  He yelled aloud, 
"You took me by surprise!" 
Upon recovering
From the shock  
That he'd received at the stranger's hand, 
Jones glared at him contemptuously, 
And failed to understand how anyone 
Could possess the gall to encroach  
Upon the confines of his land. 
Then he opened up a pompous mouth 
And cocked a vile tongue 
And prepared to lash the stranger with a tirade which,  
When done, 
Would certainly set him on his way 
In a fearful, breakneck run.
But before the first of the vehement curse 
Could be volleyed on its way, 
The stranger lifted an ominous hand which,
Somehow, 
Seemed to stay the onslaught of insults 
That was about to come into play.




 

"I am here," the stranger spoke 
In a sternly commanding tone, 
"To reveal to you a city much greater, 
More magnificent and more splendiferous, Mister Jones, 
Than mankind, throughout eternity, could ever build with stone." 
The statement, 
Thus spoken, 
Bewildered and belittled Nehemiah's mortal brain 
To such an extent he felt it nearly impossible 
To contain the surge of rage within his breast, 
And yet, he managed to refrain. 
For there was a greater compunction consuming the rage within; 
An overpowering urge, 
A compelling desire, 
A yearning to see this city not built by men, 
Which quelled the anger,
Contained the fire, 
And stilled his quivering chin.




 

Then a finger of the upraised hand of the stranger 
Made a gesture 
Which imposed upon Nehemiah 
A desire to follow this intruder in alien vesture, 
Though his beleaguered brain 
Was churning with apprehension and implacable conjecture. 
But as Nehemiah ventured motivation 
He was beset by consternation. 
His feet, he found, had left the ground, 
Which caused great aggravation to his already entangled mind, 
So he deemed it his imagination. 
But the sights and sounds encountered,
He found, 
Called for amendment to this conclusion. 
Though reason bore no confirmation, 
He was certain 'twas no delusion. 
So he threw his arms across his eyes 
And relented to total confusion. 
In a fleeting instant, 
Though it seemed to Nehemiah to have been hours,  
His feet touched down on earth once more 
In a field of swaying flowers whose colors
Brightened the purplest depths
Of the most profuse of oaken bowers. 
A moment passed 'ere Jones regained composure in his plight 
And recalled the promise given 
Of the most magnificent sight of a city  
Of stupendous magnitude, 
And recalling, he bolted upright. 
He looked to the north and glanced to the south, 
And scanned the east and west. 
He scoured the valleys and searched the hills 
And peered as a man possessed. 
Then he faced his companion
With hands on his hips, 
And mouthed a violent protest. 
"You've not been duped," the angel spoke, 
Perceiving Jones' innermost thought.  
"The city's here...
'Tis how to look, and thus to see,
You've not been taught. 
And for this reason, and for this cause 
To this place you've been brought." 
"Your mind's awry, Nehemiah, and your values 
Are ignorantly misplaced. 
You deny the worth of the precious,
And your arrogance 
Is a total disgrace.  
You worship that which is worthless, 
You're a smudge on humanity's face." 
With these harsh words, the stranger  
Thrust a finger t'ward the ground 
And bade Nehemiah genuflect, 
And made him to sit down and look beyond the pointed finger 
To a tiny earthen mound.






"'Tis the first and lower part of the city," began his ethereal guide. 
"You would designate it ant hill, 
Yet 'twas built with forethought and with purpose, 
Not for pride. 
"And nothing that man could envisage 
could match the intricate construction 
Of the tiny halls inside." 
Then the stranger, by some form of magic, 
Made it possible for Jones to look 
Inside the mound, beneath the ground, 
Where hundreds of chambers and nooks were astutely designed 
And then intertwined by the hallways of access 
Their frequenters took. 
There are throughways for supply transportation 
And byways to nurseries for the young, 
Escape avenues designed to be used if the city  
Should be overrun. 
And each thoroughfare, with meticulous care, 
Is maintained by the workers when done. 
Nothing was built to serve pleasure,
No energy wasted on pomp; 
No ostentation, no silly oblation 
For the deities of artistry to stomp. 
Survival and welfare stand prominent. 
No space is wasted for romp. 
And yet, the results of their toil  
Would please the architect's eye. 
For everything built serves a purpose, 
And in purpose a beauty doth lie; 
A beauty inherent, though seldom apparent to the mundane passer-by. 
"You will note they strive in harmony," quoth the angel, 
"And with infinitesimal brain, they labor  
On a vast metropolis that,
With ease,
Puts mankind's best Efforts to shame. 
Study it well, Nehemiah,  
And consider, and compare it with your own meager domain." 
"Trash!"  Yelled Jones, with sanguine face. 
"Pure trash!  Bunk and balderdash!" 
Then he shrieked again, "'Tis an insect's den!",  
With a voice both irate and brash. 
But he glanced once more through the tiny door 
Before stomping away through the grass.
"Now come with me," the angel spoke, "and we shall view, 
Before we retire from this place, 
A much larger mound,
Tall as a man,
Even higher." 
And he led Nehemiah across the field 
To a colossal earthen spire.




 
"This, Nehemiah, is but another marvel 
Of the metropolis that dwarfs your own. 
"'Tis a termite mound, a city in itself, 
Built while the great winds have blown
Your man-made mockeries back into dust, 
And laid your great monuments prone. 
Study it closely, inspect it slowly, 
And consider the fact, mister Jones, 
That nowhere within this architectural wonder will you find  
One solitary stone. 
'Tis constructed with substance that lends it adhesion 
That man has never known." 
"You see, Mister Jones, 
Mankind must take from without what his structures require. 
But the builders herein produce from within  
The substance which molds this great spire. 
Yet, no time was spent to research or invent, 
'Twas given, not born of desire. 
The colossus was formed through knowledge innate, 
Not from years of studious pain. 
The builders have squandered no time in pondering, 
Or trying to rely on the brain, 
But merely undertake to create and use
Of that which was freely obtained. 
A man could not hope, in the limited scope of a lifetime, 
To learn to apply even one tiny fraction 
Of the principles in action 
When these little laborers ply 
The skills they possess, and with total success,  
Achieve perfection a man would not try." 
This time there arose no cry from Nehemiah, 
But he stared with a vexed expression, 
And an envious twinge tickled his bones, 
(Just a touch of a jealous infection). 
But the redoubts of his mind were stubbornly inclined 
To relinquish no sign of impression. 
"After all," he reasoned within, 
"They're just random, makeshift dunes. 
There's no careful planning, no study of stress 
Or alignment of doorways and rooms. 
Though, admittedly, the structures serve purpose and need, 
They flaunt no stately festoons. 
They possess no beauty, no loveliness of line 
That results from the tedious hours  
And pains of perfection that must be suffered 
To adorn man's prodigious towers."
And here, his thought-filled train was derailed 
As the stranger drew eye to the flowers.




 

"These are the asterisks used by the power 
Whose existence you stubbornly deny,
To punctuate places of beauty on earth 
That would tend to elude the eye 
And thus give cause for ineffable pause  
To delight the passer-by. 
Lock a lingering look on these petals my friend, 
And concentrate on recollection of any great thing 
You've built or you've seen 
That matches the brilliant reflection of coruscating hues 
Through the prisms of dew
When the sunbeams display their affection." 
But Jones could not find, in the halls of his mind, 
One memorable thing that he'd seen; 
No marvel of men that could even begin duplication  
Of the radiant scene 
That gilded the fields and brightened the hills 
And speckled the valleys between. 
"If it's beauty you seek, it's here at your feet, 
And it covers the land over all. 
And it springs from the earth in a miracle of birth 
That answers the season's call. 
These, with the grass, form great carpets 
That mankind could never install. 
They are constructed,"  the angel continued, 
"And do not, as you believe, spring from space. 
Each fiber
Within each delicate stem 
Was intentionally set in particular place 
And interwoven with infinite care to provide
Both style and grace." 
Again, Nehemiah lent wings to his eyes 
And scanned the Beautiful scene. 
And he could not contend that the frail arts of men 
Could mimic the hues 'mid the green. 
And to carpet a city, rather than pave, 
Was an insurmountable Thing.




 

"And now, come with me to yon hollow tree, 
A structure which has survived two thousand years." 
And he led him near, and once they had arrived, 
With a tilt of his head, the stranger led Nehemiah's eye 
To a honey bee hive. 
"Now gaze within, you worshipper of men, 
And feast your arrogant eyes on a masterpiece of symmetry." 
And, to Jones' dismay and surprise, 
He arrived at a precipice of truth, 
And his pomposity began its demise. 
He peered with astonished amazement at the thousands
Of intricate lines 
That intersected, with minute precision, 
And formed to perfection, 
Repetitive, angular designs. 
"All these were constructed," the angel asserted,
"In the space of a season's time." 
"How can it be," mused Nehemiah, "that creatures devoid 
Of a highly developed brain 
Could devise this equiangular edifice,
This symmetrical domain, 
And defy the science and knowledge of man 
And put his great works to shame? 
But the truth is still the truth, 
And therefore, I cannot decline to acknowledge 
The immanence of an intangible fact: 
In the depths of their acts is entwined 
Somehow, somewhere, an elusive force that endows them 
With singleness of mind." 
"It cannot be," in his mind thought he, "that creatures so Tiny as these 
Could formulate, much less create, without help, 
Such a thing with complex expertise." 
Then he turned to his guide with a feeling inside 
Of respect, and sank to his knees. 
"And now, Nehemiah, we must traverse the sky 
Once more 'ere my work is through." 
And thus saying, the stranger gestured once more, 
And again, Nehemiah Jones flew like an Eagle awing 
'Till his feet felt the cling of soft earth  
Again 'neath his shoes. 






In a valley they stood, in the midst of a wood populated  
By gigantic trees. 
"'Tis the great sequoia, whose battered cortex 
Has weathered the eons with ease; 
Whose towering heights are home and delight 
For the birds, the animals and bees." 
With consternation, Nehemiah's eyes embraced  
The awesome scene. 
And his diminution increased as his ego began 
To careen through a violently rushing torrent of spillage 
From a broken dam 
Of self esteem! 
"The size is the thing," the angel erupted, 
"The huge, Gargantuan size! 
Engulf if you can, you minuscule man, Just one,
In the scope of your eyes." 
But to look upon one could not be done, 
But by sections, 
Nehemiah surmised. 
"So, Mister Jones, have you ever beheld 
A towering spire such as this 
That was built without stone or mortar or bone, 
Yet brushes the heavenly mist 
And prevails against blend of wild storm and wind, 
And all the great elements resists? 
The problem, my friend, with the cities of men  
Is the fact that they cannot grow—
Cannot reproduce what's destroyed by abuse 
From the heat and the rains and the snow. 
And the miraculous thing, I shall now bring 
To your attention before we go. 
The materials required by the builder, 
This tremendous colossus to form, 
Need not be hauled in by ten thousand men 
Who would toil ‘til weary and worn. 
All that it needs is in one tiny seed 
Akin to a kernel of corn.” 






“And now, before we depart, Nehemiah, let us briefly epitomize 
Concerning this beautiful city and its vast,
Incalculable size, 
And touch upon the things you’ve seen 
And the things you’ve realized. 
All you behold is constructed  
with particular purpose and call, 
For nothing exists without reason, 
And each is important to all. 
From beneath the turf to above the earth, 
In this city, nothing is small. 
The city’s floor is carpeted, and the peaks of its spires 
Enwreathed. 
It has existed from earth’s beginning 
When the first breath of life was breathed. 
And, unlike the cities of man, it will, 
Till the sword of time is sheathed.” 




 
With this last word, a hush occurred, 
And a heavenly breeze wafted by 
Which separated human from the divine 
And whisked him back on high, 
Till at last he stood where at first he’d stood 
‘Ere the angel ventured by. 
Yes, true enough, ‘twas his favorite bluff 
Overlooking that built by his hand. 
But the luster was gone from the white, polished stone, 
And the towers didn’t stand quite as tall. 
And the great city wall no longer dignified the land. 
It stood as a blot, and marred the spot 
That had once been beautifully flowered. 
And he realized, as he fixed his eyes on the awesome, 
Ivory towers,  
That the land he observed would have been better served 
By planting more beautiful bowers. 
No usefulness lay where the mortar and clay 
Joined the sculpted stone. 
No function was served by the delicate curves 
Interlacing the marble and bone. 
In a few meager years it would all disappear, 
This glory of man would be gone. 
Then he turned on his heels 
And looked over the fields and valleys 
Across the lands, 
And then to the ground, at a miniature mound, 
And he knew that omnipotent hands had fashioned it all, 
The huge and the small, 
Where the “Greatest City” stands.