Babel

Text erects a flexible tower, stretching to the heavens.
Ancient armies spread their shields and arms in lines.
Kings and queens gather greed like sheep-shorn bundles,
Make plans, stake out land, do what they can to win, but then:

Self-lies and pride wreck what's left of their pitiful tries,
And this leftover mess is the best men hope for;
For the less men hope for, the better,
For this fetter attacks the jugular,

And this treasure attracts only burglars and moths,
This crucible tacks nails into the faithful like a hateful Centurian within
This thorn in our side may be worn with pride, for pride's sake,
But the bride's safety depends on who wins, and who dies,
And for whose sake who dies when they die,

Words outstretched like arms,
That fly where the never expected the text to fly.