I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: 𝐌𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐎𝐳𝐲𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐬, 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬, 𝐲𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. And so the mighty king, once a ruler of all, Now forgotten, his power turned to dust, His empire lost, his name a silent call, A tale of glory now consumed by rust.