I happened to doze off a bit while remembering a poem,“Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
“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 its 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.”
In my brief reverie, I dreamed or conjured an imagining of that scene in that waste and blasted land and those stumps of legs. There was something odd in that image of those great stone feet. They were wearing golf shoes. And the face was, despite the ravages of time and wind blown sand, strangely familiar.