One sun-drenched, sweltering day in the Khmer
High tourist season, I sought shade behind
A headless beast. A pool of moisture where
Some Philistine had taken time to grind
A cigarette butt into ancient stone.
I had an Ozymandias moment, hearing
The past, shrieking through fields of bone,
And into vacuous sunlight disappearing.
Faceless it was today, but once that fierce
Leonine countenance struck starkest terror;
Once there were eyes whose irate gaze could pierce
Men's souls, and chastise every mortal error.
In Jayavarman's dreams this lion roared
Now it's a butt joke for a tourist horde.
— S.P. Somtow
