Текст песни
I met a traveler from a distant time,
Who spoke of ruins buried in the grime.
Two broken legs in the desert stand,
Their shadow swallowed by the sand.
A fallen face, a sculpted sneer,
Still whispers pride from yesteryear.
The wind still sings through shattered stone,
Of empires lost, of hearts of stone.
“I am the king of kings,” he cried,
“Look on my works and bow with pride.”
But nothing stands, the years erase,
The thrones of men, the mortal race.
Round the decay, the echoes fade,
All glory lost, all power betrayed.
His name still carved, his crown long gone,
A ghost that mocks the rising dawn.
The sculptor’s hand, the tyrant’s grin,
Both turned to dust, as all things spin.
The desert laughs, the heavens sigh,
Even kings and gods must die.
The hand that built, the heart that fed,
Now sleep among the silent dead.
“I am the king of kings,” he cried,
“Look on my works and bow with pride.”
But time has claimed his golden reign,
And left him lone upon the plain.
Round the decay, the sands remain,
Whispering softly his name in vain.
Nothing beside remains...
Just the wind, and the endless plains.
