It had become glaringly obvious: boredom had set in.
The natives no longer climbed the Sacred Rock.
There were no written declarations of ennui,
Only countless airline tickets.
On the other hand, those 828 meters
Were an easy target in a time of war.
It cost quite a bit (and rightly so, you assume),
But the return on investment was swift.
Atop the Sacred Rock now sits the Burj Khalifa,
Basking in an ancient aura and
A heroic, blood-stained sea with natural islands.
The Parthenon, in the Tower’s place,
With the burden of concrete at his feet,
Is now ecstatic with the dancing fountain and the Arabian nights.
Only the expensive kanduras remind it, un peu,
Of the tunics of ancient Athenians philosophizing in the Agora.
Then they killed philosophers and exiled generals.
It does not want his Attic tears to be seen.
It uses the humidity of the Arabian Gulf as camouflage.
The most poignant moment was the welcome
By Themistocles at the airport, holding a sign:
THEMISTOCLES, ATHENIAN PERSIAN.
ΘΕΜΙΣΤΟΚΛΗΣ, ΑΘΗΝΑΙΟΣ ΠΕΡΣΗΣ.
The British Museum, complacent now, went to the High Priests, and
Has finally returned the Marbles to the United Arab Emirates.