“Dry bones can harm no one”— So sang the voice from Wasteland’s shore, But I have walked the killing fields And know the lie that silence bore.
The bones do speak, though long decayed, Unearthed by hands not theirs to claim, Given tongues by zealot priests Who mouth their prayers and speak their shame.
In Kosovo’s fields, in Gaza’s dust, In Armenia’s buried grief, Across the sands of Erbil’s night, The dead are stirred—not for relief.
They rise not in their own defense, They rise to justify the blade, Embroidered with fresh fable-cloth, With memories half-new, half-made.
The Promised Land is paved with skulls That never sought a throne or crown. The gospel of the grave is preached In voices never theirs to claim.
The soul-stained call them forth once more— These ventriloquists of vengeance Make calcium speak of causes The buried never chose to bless.
They cry for peace, yet hear their names Proclaimed to summon death, not justice. Their marrow plundered, their repose Defiled while ancient wounds burn bright.
They do not ask to be avenged— No whisper from the tomb requests A mother’s tears be matched by some New covenant of blood and fire.
Until we bury not just bone But pride and myth and righteous sword, The dead shall march in vengeful script To scrawl our creeds in sacred dust.
Dry bones should harm no one— Yet see how we conscript the dust, Make weapons of our ancestors, And brand our vengeance just.
“Here I am, an old man in a dry month, / Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.” —T.S. Eliot, Gerontion
“Enigmas never age, have you noticed that” —Donald Trump, in a 50th birthday greeting to Jeffrey Epstein, as reported by the Wall Street Journal, July 17, 2025
The Great Day of His Wrath by John Martin, 1853, oil painting on canvas.
Not with a whimper but with judgment— the hollow men are laid bare. Between the shadow and the substance falls the weight of what they’ve done.
April reaps the harvest of unburied sins, memory and justice tally their dues in the counting house of broken promises. The rats abandon ship; the reckoning arrives through cracks in gilded towers.
We are not hollow, not stuffed with lies— we are the thunder that shakes foundations, the rain that scours the ledger clean, the voice that names the unnamed.
In this valley of false prophets their empires crumble while truth endures, and when the smoke clears, we remain— the witnesses in the empty boardroom, the light that penetrates the shadow.
The desert remembers. The wasteland testifies. And those who thought themselves untouchable now face the music of their making: Here. Here is the bill.
Between the crime and the punishment falls not silence, but the sound of debts returning to their debtors— inevitable, unrelenting, just.
In the room the power brokers scheme and plot, but tonight the doors are locked and the receipts read aloud.
This is the way the world ends— not with their bang, but with our thunder— the final indictment.
The Disquieting Muses (1916-18) by Giorgio de Chirico (97.16 cm × 66 cm, oil on canvas)
Preface
This poem, Elegy for the Automatons, was inspired by George Packer’s article The Hollow Men, which appeared in the May 2025 issue of The Atlantic. Packer’s article examines the political and moral collapse of certain American officials—Speaker Mike Johnson, Senator Lindsey Graham, and Secretary of State Marco Rubio—who, once defenders of democratic principles, surrendered themselves to the inverted realities demanded by Donald Trump’s authority and his increasingly Orwellian authoritarian state.
Echoing the pivotal scene in Orwell’s 1984 where a Party orator is handed a note and instantly redirects his vitriol toward a different enemy “mid-sentence, without a pause,” Packer documents how key Republican figures performed their own breathtaking reversal on Ukraine policy, and describes how these officials pivoted instantly from celebrating Ukraine’s resistance to Russia’s aggression to denouncing Ukraine as the enemy—all in service to Trump’s shifting personal allegiances and contempt for democratic values.
Packer also invokes Henri Bergson’s insight that the mechanical within the human evokes both laughter and horror. Yet what he describes transcends mechanical reflex: it is the slow hollowing-out of conscience itself. Once-thoughtful men become fluent automatons, mouthing words disconnected from belief, loyalty, or memory.
This poem seeks to render in elegiac form the sorrowful descent of a free polity into ritualized untruth, and the transformation of human beings into instruments of submission.
“We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!” — T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men
Elegy for the Automatons
In the year when the hollowing began, and Orwell’s warning stirred too late, it came not by fire nor iron decree, but smiling, in the face of one man. He bore no heavy crown, no burning sword; only the gift of inversion: truth was a lie, loyalty a whim, freedom the mask of power. A man for whom cruelty was a virtue, and truth a broken toy at his feet; a man who measured loyalty by abasement, and called the strong weak and the weak strong.
Under his gaze, the names of enemies blurred, history curled back on itself like smoke; words, having lost their anchor, floated as banners torn from any mast. And a people once proud of remembering forgot that they had ever known another day.
From this hour of unmooring emerged the hollowing of men.
Johnson, first among the fallen, fumbled for strength among hollow phrases, mouth heavy with the weight of borrowed words. Behind his thickened glass, a flicker died— and he mistook its ashes for light.
Graham, quick to find the favor of the wind, circled the ruin with the laughter of forgetting, shedding oaths like old garments, spinning from vow to vow as a moth to a dying flame, faithless to all but the empty crown of belonging.
Rubio, once proud in the defense of liberty, sank into the yellow chair of forgetting, listening to the slow departure of his own voice. Once he cried for the dignity of nations; now he stitched the banners of surrender with empty hands.
Thus were men unmade, not by terror, nor by war, but by the patient grinding of truth into noise, by the slow machinery of convenience and fear.
And we, who watched, sang no hymns for these men, built no statues to mark their days. They passed like shadows over a broken dial, automatons grinding down the hour, till even the dust forgot their tread.
U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio, February 28, 2025 — slipping deeper into the hollowing of the soul.
Justice, in any age, is a fragile thing. When upheld, it brings order, clarity, and fairness. When corrupted, it festers unseen at first, then collapses with ruinous consequence. The Temples of Utu: A Contemporary Lamentation for Justice is a prophetic lament cast in the voice and style of an ancient civilization, yet it speaks with painful familiarity to those who observe the world today.
Ningišzida, with snakes emanating from his shoulders, on a relief of Gudea. Photograph by Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin FRCP (Glasg) CC BY-SA 4.0.
This work draws upon the mythic imagery of Mesopotamian religion, invoking gods who, for the people of Sumer and Akkad, embodied cosmic forces—truth and deception, judgment and decay. Though their temples have long crumbled to dust, their symbols remain potent warnings for the rise and fall of justice in human society.
Be aware, however, the Lamentation does not reflect the historic reality of how and where justice was actually dispensed in ancient Mesopotamia. A rudimentary understanding of the justice system, such as we understand it, is discussed in early scholarship, such as Samuel Noah Kramer’s The Summerians: Their History, Culture and Character (1963/1971), for those who are interested in the basics (see for instance pp. 83-88). If truly interested in historical reality, seek out more updated, contemporary scholarship! It will be worthwhile!
Who Are the Gods Named in This Lamentation?
Utu (Shamash): The Mesopotamian god of the sun, justice, and truth. Utu was depicted as the divine judge who saw all things, presiding over oaths and fair dealings. His light illuminated deception, and his scales weighed the hearts of the people. When justice was upheld, his temples shone golden in the sun; when corruption took root, his light dimmed.
Namtar: The herald of death and bringer of plagues, Namtar represents creeping inevitability—the slow, inexorable spread of decay. In this lamentation, he is not an agent of quick destruction, but of corruption’s quiet advance through the halls of justice, spreading like a sickness that hollows out institutions from within.
Ningišzida: A chthonic (underworld) deity associated with serpents, passage between worlds, and the boundary between truth and falsehood. He coils around the pillars of justice, his forked tongue shaping words that once carried fairness into tools of deception. His presence signals the transformation of law into an instrument of the powerful, a mask of legitimacy covering injustice.
Enlil: The great god of storms and divine authority. Though absent for much of the lamentation, his presence gathers at the end, a harbinger of reckoning. If Utu is the impartial light of justice, Enlil is the storm that follows when justice is betrayed.
These figures serve as more than mythological references—they embody timeless realities. The slow erosion of judicial integrity, the rise of factionalism over fairness, the perversion of law into a tool of the mighty—these are not merely the concerns of an ancient civilization but of every society that has ever built temples to justice, and of every people who have watched those temples fall.
As you read (or listen to) The Temples of Utu, consider not only the past, but the world around you. Are the scales of justice still balanced? Or has the light of Utu grown dim once more?
An Reading of Donald S. Yarab’s “The Temples of Utu: “A Lamentation for Justice”
The Temples of Utu: A Lamentation for Justice
Part I: The Silencing of the Scales The First Turning Away
In the days of order, when truth stood firm in the public square and the scales weighed all hearts with equal measure, the temples of Utu shone golden in the light of the sun. The judges, priests of Utu—Utu, whose eye sees all deceptions, whose light banishes shadow—sat in chambers of cedar and stone, their hands unstained, their vision clear. The weak approached without trembling, for the law was etched in tablets that none might alter, and justice flowed like water through the streets of the city.
But in time, whispers came upon the night wind. First to one priest, then another. Golden whispers, honeyed promises, from the lips of those who dwelled in towers of privilege. And some turned their ears to listen.
From the towers of the mighty came emissaries bearing gifts that were not called bribes, bearing words that were not called threats. And the first priest of Utu who accepted such offerings felt the scales within his heart shift, so slightly he did not mark it. But Utu marked it. Utu, whose eye sees all deceptions, whose light banishes shadow.
Yet Utu's voice grew fainter in the halls of judgment, as the mighty pressed their thumbs upon his sacred scales.
The First Injustice
When the widow came before the seat of judgment, Her cause was just, her claim was true. But he who robbed her wore the sigil of the faction, And gold had changed the color of the law.
The priest of Utu spoke with borrowed tongue: "The letter of the tablet says thus and thus, Though its spirit cries otherwise." And so the widow left with empty hands.
She raised her voice to Utu in the square: "Where is thy justice, Lord of Truth? Thy priests speak with forked tongues, Thy scales are weighted with gold."
But no answer came from the heavens, For the priests had muffled Utu's ears with silk.
Part II: The Spreading Corruption The Selecting of the Loyal
As the cycles of the moon passed, it came to be that when a priest of Utu returned to the earth, those who chose his successor looked not for wisdom, not for fairness, not for devotion to the scales of truth. Instead, they sought those who had bowed before the factions, who had pledged themselves in secret chambers to uphold not the law as it was written, but the interests of those who appointed them.
And so the temples of Utu, one by one, were filled with those who had sold their sight before ever taking the seat of judgment. The words remained the same, the rituals unchanged, but the spirit had fled from the body of justice.
Then came Namtar, herald of plagues and divine judgment, moving through the corridors of power. Not with swift death did he strike, but with slow corruption, a disease of the soul that left its victims standing but hollow, wearing the robes of justice while serving the lords of greed.
The Purchased Judgment
See how they come with scrolls of precedent, Twisting ancient words to serve new masters. The tablet says what they wish it to say, The law bends like reeds in the wind.
Namtar walks among the pillars of justice, His touch light as coin upon the palm. Each judgment purchased furthers the contagion, Each verdict for sale spreads the plague.
The merchants of discord dine at the judges' tables, The priests of faction whisper in their ears. "This cause favors our patrons," they murmur, "This ruling advances our creed."
And the people cry out to Shamash, to Utu, But the god of justice has turned his face away.
Part III: The New Order of the Scales The Temples Transformed
And so it came to pass that the temples of Utu no longer stood as bulwarks against chaos, but as instruments of those who ruled from shadow. The priests spoke still of justice, wore still the robes of impartiality, but their eyes looked ever to their masters for guidance. Their words were shaped not by the tablets of law, but by the whispers of faction.
The scales that once weighed all hearts equally now tipped by design. The light that once revealed truth now cast strategic shadows. And those who came seeking justice found instead a marketplace where outcomes were traded like cloth and grain in the bazaar.
Ningišzida, serpent god of the underworld who knows the passage between life and death, between truth and falsehood, wound himself around the pillars of the temple. His forked tongue spoke through the mouths of judges, words that seemed just but served injustice, verdicts that spoke of law while mocking its purpose.
And the people learned that there were two laws in the land: one for the mighty, another for the meek.
The Twisted Scales
The scales of Utu hang crooked now, Weighted with bribes and heavy with deceit. The blindfold of justice has become a hood, Pulled tight by hands that serve the powerful.
Ningišzida coils around the judgment seat, His serpent form hidden beneath official robes. "Justice," they proclaim, while dealing in its absence, "The law," they intone, while breaking its heart.
The mighty approach the temple without fear, For they have purchased indulgence in advance. The weak approach with dread upon their faces, For they know the verdict before the case is heard.
The tablets of law remain upon the wall, But the words change meaning at the touch of gold.
Part IV: The Unraveling The Breaking of the Covenant
Thus was the covenant between the people and the law undone. Not by decree, not by conquest, but by the slow poisoning of the wells of justice. As the cycles of the sun passed, the people came to know that the temples of Utu offered no sanctuary, that the words of his priests held no truth, that the scales of judgment measured not justice but advantage.
And in this knowing, the bindings of society began to fray. For what is law if not promise? What is justice if not trust? What is order if not the belief that truth will prevail against falsehood?
The factions that had captured the temples of Utu did not see the doom they had wrought. They celebrated their victory over impartiality, their conquest of the scales. They did not hear the whispers of Enlil, god of wind and storm, gathering his breath for the tempest to come.
For when justice fails, chaos awakens. When law becomes weapon rather than shield, the people take up arms of their own. When truth is no longer honored in the temples, it finds voice in the streets.
The Price of Betrayal
Now the city trembles on foundations of sand, The temples of justice stand as hollow shells. What was built through centuries of wisdom, Falls to ruin through seasons of corruption.
The people no longer speak the name of Utu, For his priests have made it bitter on the tongue. They turn instead to other gods, darker gods, Gods of vengeance, gods of fire.
The mighty sleep uneasy in their beds, For they have slain the guardian of their peace. In purchasing the law, they rendered it worthless, In bending justice, they broke its spine.
And Enlil gathers the winds of retribution, For no society stands when its pillars are rotten.
Epilogue: The Warning The Voice of Memory
Those who remember, who still hold truth sacred in their hearts, who recall the days when the temples of Utu shone with uncorrupted light, raise their voices in the twilight of justice. They speak of what was lost, of scales that balanced, of laws that served all equally. They warn of what comes when the mighty believe they have placed themselves beyond judgment.
For Utu watches still, though his priests have forsaken him. Shamash sees still, though his temples have been corrupted. And the day will come when light returns to the chambers of darkness, when truth again flows through the veins of justice.
But the price of restoration will be bitter, paid in the coin of upheaval. For what is corrupted cannot be cleansed without fire.
The Future Reckoning
Remember this in days to come, When the storms of chaos break upon the land, When faction fights faction in the ruined streets, When the mighty tremble before the dispossessed:
It began with the silencing of the scales, It began with the purchasing of truth. It began when the temples of Utu Became marketplaces for injustice.
And those who turned their backs on truth, Who sold the scales for temporary gain, Who twisted the tablets of sacred law, Will cry out: "How could we have known?"
But their hands are not clean. For they desecrated the temples, stone by stone. They corrupted the judges, word by word. They unmade justice, verdict by verdict.
And when Utu returns to claim his throne, Neither gold nor faction will shield them from his light.
The Shattered Eagle is a poignant examination of constitutional crisis and democratic decay in modern America. Through vivid imagery and elegiac tone, it traces the symbolic fall of the American Republic, using the eagle as a metaphor for a nation once soaring with purpose but now battered by corruption, authoritarianism, and civic erosion. This meditation on institutional collapse examines the deterioration of checks and balances, the rise of illiberal power, and the fraying of democratic norms.
Themes and Significance
The poem critiques the erosion of constitutional democracy, judicial independence, and legislative integrity. It reflects on how demagoguery, partisan dysfunction, and the corruption of public institutions have undermined democratic ideals and the rule of law. Through its exploration of societal polarization and institutional decay, it captures the zeitgeist of a republic in crisis.
Yet amid constitutional peril and democratic backsliding, the poem poses a crucial question about renewal. Its final stanzas challenge readers to consider whether civic restoration is possible through recommitment to democratic principles and constitutional values.
A Poem for Our Times
Rich in metaphor and steeped in political philosophy, The Shattered Eagle invites readers to confront the realities of democratic erosion while contemplating paths to institutional renewal. Drawing on the tradition of great political poetry like Yeats’s The Second Coming and Auden’s September 1, 1939, this work speaks to the universal struggle to preserve constitutional democracy and the rule of law in an age of mounting illiberalism.
The Shattered Eagle
Once soared an eagle, wings outspread, Its cry a clarion, freedom bred. From gilded heights, it carved the skies, Its dreams a nation dared to rise.
Yet winds of discord tore its plume, Ambition’s torch became its tomb. The golden thread of union frayed, As shadows deepened, hope decayed.
Where laws were forged by reason’s might, Now darkness shrouds their guiding light. Once sworn to serve the commonweal, They sold their oaths for power’s appeal.
The halls once rang with measured voice, Where reason swayed the public choice. Yet now the chambers echo lies, As honeyed tongues weave thin disguise.
No laws they craft, but favors they sell, To oligarchs who cast their spell. Once stewards strong, they now kneel low, To serve a leader’s fleeting glow.
The scales of justice, firm and true, Now tilt, corrupted, favoring the few. Once blind, now stained with partisan hue, They take their bribes in plainest view.
No fealty now to law's command, But whispers guide the justices’ hand. From lofty heights, the court descends, A tool for power, not amends.
The eagle's perch, the people's trust, Now yields to one with tyrannous lust. The laurels fall, the wreath departs, A crown is forged for lawless hearts.
No equal here, a king ascends, While truth dissolves and honor bends. The oath betrayed, the power abused, A throne of lies by fear infused.
The wheels once turned to serve the land, Now falter at one man’s command. Where duty reigned with steady hand, Now chaos thrives and rot expands.
The gears once turned with steady grace, Impartial hands for every case. Now oiled with fear, the cogs obey, A sovereign’s whims, the people's dismay.
No law to guide, no truth to bind, The constitution lies maligned. The servants sworn to guard the land Now yield to lash at one command.
Ideals once held as shining beacons, Now crumble ‘neath the weight of treasons. Their lofty light, now dimmed and lost, Is bartered for ambition’s cost.
The shining hill, a beacon high, Now shrouded 'neath a darkened sky. Its lofty dreams by greed betrayed, By hands of those whose hearts decayed.
No vision guides, no ideals inspire, But petty aims and base desire. The noble pact, to truth once sworn, Now trampled, tattered, and forlorn.
A fractured land, a shattered will, Where hatred reigns and hearts grow still. What union stood now falls apart, Its seams undone by poisoned hearts.
The land now split by faction’s line, Where rancor festers, hopes decline. The brother turns on brother’s hand, And hatred scorches all the land.
No union binds, no concord stays, But discord reigns in endless days. Society rent, uncivil, torn, A weary people, broken, worn.
...
A weary people, broken, worn, Where shadows fall and freedoms mourn. Yet seeds may bloom, if hearts remain, Resolved to rise through toil and pain.
