I have heard strange voices.
The air seems full of sweat
and stink, the buildings smeared
with grime. How long has the
city lived? How long will it?
You, Nebuchadnezzar, bright king—
you are my hammer, my weapon
made for war. I will train your
hands, my right hand will
teach you terror. The city
sings, for the horse is broken
and the rider falls.
I have wandered in this city
and called it good. Have you
built houses here, Jacob? Where
are your gardens, David? The
horse is broken and the rider
falls. Cyrus, be ye welcome.
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