As they built on the volcano,
They were thinking of their gold,
trying hard to make it glisten
as they carved into the pumice stones,

They worked quickly in the shadow
of the mountain built of ash
in the valley of the sudden death
that had passed through many lives ago,

As the jewel-encrusted bells were hung,
there was no thought of danger,
they were merely there to sing of joy,
and revelries, and weddings,

When the smoke rose up to greet them,
they were safe in white-washed houses,
murals on walls of reliable strength,
and wealth too vast to challenge.

As the soot filled their expensive air,
and their hands reached to their throats,
they felt the assurance of diamonds there,
and went back to their games.

No one seemed to hear the warning
through their Epicurean delights,
they ate and drank, and carried on,
for tomorrow they would die.

Preserved forever in their fear,
the price of their Pompeiian pleasures,
with all of their riches clutched to their breasts,
and their children alone in the streets.