Jeg lytter.

Listen to the sounds of silence as the walls come tumbling down.

It will.

So we leave and so we go,

The old mill [archive].

Further away than our village limits, even beyond the lonely farms, the river Quith rolls off the mountains and down the steepest hills. Upon the hill which holds the Quith is a mill from ages past. A giant water wheel was there with spinning stones both thick and vast. And as the waters came to pass, they went back to the same, they turned with speed that giant wheel and joined the Quith again.

Soft smiles.

How sweet the sound of children’s laughter sounds in quiet times. When food sits salted and pots all boil, when weapons are clean and stored. When all around is still but for the song of birds and the young.

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.