And so it begins, the final ascent,
The last couple days to go and repent
To gods perched atop the acropolis high
Who hold secrets close, though you may pry.
They burn you with sun and flog you with heat,
Those apocryphal gods who think they’re so neat.
And the only respite from their terror uncalled
Is to take to the pick and give it your all.
Drip sweat from your nose, grind sand in your teeth,
Laugh till you cry, then perhaps they’ll be pleased.
Dig down to the deep, deepest layer you can,
Uncover clues with a trowel in hand.
And if you find nigh, not a stone to your name,
Worry not gentle sir, there is no one to blame.
Some mysteries stay just the way that they are,
Meant for no man, lost to the stars.
But if you should find a hint or a tease
Of worlds long gone by, caught on the breeze,
Then you have been blessed, invited, nay honored
By the gods of the hill whom I have oft pondered.