Tales

I hear a story I do not believe
Told by a raving madman on the street
Yet so compelling that I could not leave
Where he stood ranting. Many thousand feet
He claimed, beneath the city that we know,
There lies, and none know how it did arrive
A massive altar, on whose polished stone,
Still smooth as when its maker was alive,
And round about it, relatively low,
Inscribed in language and in script unknown,
A seeming incantation writhes, which seems
Although unread to promise only ill.
I left him panting, sweating, standing still;
Let him alone pursue such idle dreams.