The diction of the dictator was
Forged in the Phoenician fire.
Words of the ancestral smith and what they mean to us
Is riddled in what they did conspire.
Dead linguists still speaking
From the cryptographic crypt
Offer us origins of word's first teaching,
Showing us signs in their hands gripped.
Voices of the mountains
And the sweet canopy
Were like lyrical fountains
For man to echo eternally.
Savage tongues turned silver
As we drank from the primordial elixir.
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