Built of white marble, it was always more
than a place of worship, home for a god.
Made to be seen, admired, standing for
the glory of the man who paid for it.
Its fluted pillars symbolised his power,
its gleaming stone his virtue, and perhaps
He thought the god to whom he have this house
would reward the gift with everlasting fame.

Since then, wars have raged around it; earthquakes
have rocked the hill on which it stands. The god
who lived here is long gone. The stones are cracked
or fallen, bleached and worn down by the years
and yet, the temple stands, a symbol still:
of art, of history, a fragment of
a different age. And that ambitious man
who had it made? We do not know his name.