Plunders
Fallen civilizations
Empty treasures
Smashed faces
And edited histories
I went to the British Museum
It’s where gods are left for treatment
Dwindling in their infinite misery
I am not sure how I feel about museums
It seems right to let things be
Why manifest death
When death alone does not prevail
But gives weight to a much greater cycle
In the British Museum
Where gods are left for treatment
We are their worshippers
And have come to cage our own entities
We dwindle in misery
With desperation to hold sandstorms of uncompromising time
This is the British Museum
Where the dying stare at the living
Who wonder why they are taken pictures of
The British Museum
Where the dying are helplessly left to live in their straight stature
Who’s the living
Who the dying?
Who is the viewer
Who the truly worshipped?