Art of War : Empires

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.

An old Arab lived close to New York City for more than
40 years. One day he decided that he would love to
plant potatoes and herbs in his garden, but he knew he
was alone and too old and weak.
His son was in college in Paris, so the old man
sent him an e-mail explaining the problem:
Beloved son, I am very sad, because I can't plant
potatoes in my garden. I am sure, if only you were
here, that you would help me and dig up the garden for
me. I love you, your father." The following day,
the old man received a response e-mail from his son:
Beloved father, please don't touch the garden. That
is where I have hidden 'the THING'. I love you, too,
Ahmed."
At 4pm the US Army, the Marines, the FBI, the CIA, the
NSA, the OHS, and the Rangers visited the house of the
old man and took the whole garden apart, searching every inch. But they couldn't find anything.
Disappointed, they left the house.
The next day, the old man received another e-mail from
his son:

Beloved father, I hope the garden is dug up by now
>and you can plant your potatoes. That is all I could
do for you from here. Your loving son, Ahmed."