NuremRally, 1934
by Carol Hamilton



We flowed out of our tour bus
with the ex-pat Englishman
as guide. He stayed and studied
here for 35 years, became
expert on the birth drama
of this ruined arena for Supermen,
fashioned on film by Riefenstahl,
a super woman resented
by Goebbels for her sex.
But she created him
as god with camera angles.
Nothing of grandeur remains
in this hollow shell,
gigantic coliseum.
Tourist groups cluster
around guides on a day
of gray drizzle. The glory
has gone forever in Rome,
in Nuremberg. The gods here
fashioned their own statues,
worshipped at their own shrines,
swept up hordes of believers.
But then cracks in the mortar
whispered like a nightmare
in the pre-dawn, insisted
that even London Bridge
must fall down.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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