Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Old pride.

Ruins are all that’s left of what megalithic greatness once was. A faith and life so rich and strong that through all things it could be.

As giants they were which tended the world, as Gods in themselves to shape rivers and mountains to the whims of their devotion.

But all of that is gone now, lost to the whispers of winds. The great rivers that once bowed their power to the greatness of those that shaped, now trickle back through what were impenetrable walls.

Even the foundations weep for the glory they had which was lost. Their mosaics lost under centuries of mud and earth which grows upon it, as though it were never there at all.

Perhaps the streams which reflect and shine with the sun, will reveal what was beneath the earth as it washes away the dirt. Yet only through that naked window can one dream of what was when ancient eyes peered through that space when all was newly made.

 

 

 

A prompt response.

20 thoughts on “Old pride.”

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