Ben-Hur

In the Atlantic glow of Rome’s summer dusk,
Where the colonnades gleam with silver light,
Ben‑Hur stands—his face both bold and hushed,
A boy once wed to fate, now a man of might.

He remembers, memory a faint, amber fire,
The slingshot of his boyhood, “What have ye won?”
His spirit forged like bronze, alight with desire,
To wrest a secret triumph from the Roman sun.

The chariot’s wheels clang a resonant dirge;
The horses stir like storms, their hooves a drum—
A white silhouette against the sky, a surge,
to ride the desert dunes of the world’s old hum.

In that great race of iron, heat, and sweat,
Ben‑Hur's wheels turn like a heart’s own beat;
He loose a thread of destiny, regret,
And hunts the spectre of his former heat.

His rival, a man of iron will, a senatorial glare,
Chasing phosphor‑lit dreamlike<|reserved_200653|> he stays ahead.
But those who dream of arrogance are laid bare,
As truth shouts like thunder, the truth stays not unsaid.

Each stride a prayer to the liberal, hidden, soul,
An oath that the vale will gradually withdraw;
The village of Jerusalem from the empire’s boulder,
Seconds of pearl against breaths of iron ore.

When the chariot again turns—then the moon is cry,
The storm of the awe‑beaten football meet:
Ben‑Hur realises it matters not of blood or the plight
Of an offering, or a ghost of a moment’s beat.

He looks upon the world, with its red‑edged glow,
A kingdom made of oceans, a splendid pain:
The young king of the vineyard, and the stone gold soul.
A figure that may kiss an eye of the Rolling tide.

Thus, in wistful twilight, Ben‑Hur takes his pillows;
Sands whisper his triumphs, passing home beyond the stream—
His destiny thread starts to trace his true compass;
He carries his solemn vow in the very bright dream.