Impaled on cold stones, Men stand; head erect, shoulders back,
Images captured in silence for eternity.
Their bronzed faces, green with age,
Gaze blindly at the steel cities
They unknowingly stumbled upon.
With groping, grasping hands
They clasp old stained implements,
Which found them, their stale aging fame.
Pigeons, poised proudly on outstretched arms,
Shroud the heroes of time’s past
With a milky-gray overcoat that clings
Respectfully, to each line of their stoic posture.