Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

The Eighth Wonder of the World

MICHELLE XU/THE HOYA
MICHELLE XU/THE HOYA

There they sit, two small figures sailing
Fingers through mud, and slowly trailing
Brown earth, curved calligraphies
Of ancient Tigris and Euphrates

Her sky-blue silk sundress is battered
By the monsoon dirt they’ve thrown and scattered
His glasses dimmed by the dusty fog
Of a whirling, windswept Sahara mirage

All around, the tree crowd whispers
Its anticipation, like Midwest twisters
And the two storm chasers carry on
From day to night and dusk to dawn

They dream of their imagined castle
Centuries past, and galaxies travelled
Pasted over the present print
Of reality and its rainbow tint

But he cries, and stands — his finger bleeding
Playful glory all but receding
He wipes his glasses, but just a droplet
On the lenses blinds him shades of scarlet 

He takes them off, throws them to the ground
With blurry vision, looks around
Frantically for sky-blue silk
To fix the scales of a world on tilt

Her hand finds his, and slowly guides him
To the canyon caverns they’ve pried open
The mud-lined fjords of exploration
Of this summer noon in consternation

Suddenly, he sees in the microlandscape
Electric gems that shine and take shape
Multifaceted and Technicolor
Exposed in vibrant rain-soaked wonder

The archeologists marvel over what they’ve found
A treasure trove buried beneath the ground
Of their own backyard — it was they who unfurled
The eighth famed wonder of the world

With cracked nails, they dig up a menagerie
Of twinkling topaz and jagged ruby
Of amethyst, emerald and aquamarine
Of diamond clusters with a kaleidoscope sheen

There they sit, those treasure hunters
Fingers through muddy, cosmic plunder
An excavated earth in polychrome
Where fleeting fancies dig and roam

“Annie!” calls She, from far beyond
“David!” She screams from across the lawn
“Get your hands out of that filth!” says She to them
Oblivious to their toils and their newfound gems

With earthquake steps that shake their thoughts
She marches into their everlost
Palm-white hands on their dirt-streaked wrists
Pulling them from their abode’s abyss

“What on earth are you two doing!” She asks, or rather shouts
“That’s shattered glass, get out, get out!
You cut yourself David, why would you want to play here?
This mess is just broken bottled beer!”

There they sit, across the void
Of broken glass, with dreams destroyed
Their daring deeds, so misbegotten
Buried with gems, and soon
Forgotten.

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