I am bored when people weep over the destruction of Nineveh.

Their brief public wailing has no tie to the basalt roots carved by waves of conquest and cruelty.

Do they imagine that Shamshi-Adad would hold hands with them, and gaze longingly on some alabaster lion or hulking lammasu?

Would the Assyrians, the ASSYRIANS, flinch at brutality and cracking destruction?

Their beloved bull-men gates were built with the surge and flow of decapitation and evisceration.

Would Sennacherib, who paved the street with corpses, prefer the triumph of the knife of ISIS, or the lonely editorials of half-lived lives?

The winged lions also crumble if you dare to rip them from their martial birth.

Perhaps they prefer the bulldozer, the jackhammer, to the sterile embrace that denies the flex of their muscle and the tear of their talon.

Or perhaps they choose to break into grain and dust when the last who care for them cannot bring themselves to stare into the empty darkness of the boots of their brother’s son, empty in Baghdad, for no particular reason.

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