I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that this sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
[ Update: While the pro-war networks celebrate this liberation, Indymedia reveals a wider shot which shows how few people were actually there. I smell a rat. ]
[ Further update: People from the Right are, naturally, refuting the validity of the photograph. There are certainly more people shown in their photographs, but the street behind it is still fairly empty, as I recall it was when I saw it on BBC / CNN. So it’s not a handful, but not exactly a mob either. You decide. ]