The wise man opened its lips after a millennia in silence.
A single boy listened, and immediately hanged himself.

The tree upon which the boy had found death was revered
as a sign from the messiah.

A thousand temples were built at its feet.


The shadows were drawn further. Relief was out of reach.
The light was unbearable.
The sphere, omnipresently impossible.

So they prayed, and craved the cleansing of the lands
in a sudden drench of violent waters.


Storbing lights bathed the valley in subsequent strokes,
seeking an answer in the peering eyeholes.

The molecules, deadly charged with electrical density —
small stones floating in the air, suspended by magnetism.

A translucid block, floating high over grounds barren,
buzzing, shivering, waiting.


The lights fell as in raindrops,
bathing the sands in multi-spherical patterns.

The lines diverged in shapes of perfection,
sometimes converging into points at the distance.

However feeble, the rings echoed their borders,
shifting in tune and vibration
by the passing of the clouds.


She was offered to be immortal —
to transcend the shackles of time, and space,
and physical structures.

She didn't hesitate, but never arrived at an answer.

The precise moment where she was to accept,
so suddenly stretched
into eternity.


The sacred artifacts were unearthed after millennia.
But of no use: their languages had been lost.

The gears holding the keys to immortality, power,
any and all desires. Their potential, incommensurable,
yet untameable.

All failures deemed them vain. And thus,
they were buried anew.


Their origins were undefined.
The walls had been set before them,
yet they appeared behind.
So they were not held.

They waited,
their objectives unknown — but as we observed them,
they seemed to observe back.


As the message came, the pools pulsated.
Their waters brimming, conveying the orders.
The answers. The psalms.

The hills were voiceless — sustained in a moment of prophecy.
The lights of stone. The rains like ripples.

The gathered: occult shapes bending over pools of moonlight.
All waiting.


Of all her visions, the best had been the wordless,
a voice speaking in obtuse tongues
filled with promises of gold and darkness.

How shad she had been then to be chosen by these divinities,
expelled from all pantheons
just as she herself had been from her lands.


In buried temples, the hidden effigies,
old gods: an image of limbs, and eyes, and contrivances.

Their beliefs usurped by bloated gospels and profaned priests.
Their devotion repressed, all prayers effaced.

Full of silence, their chambers endured still.
Their gold shined no longer, and all myths were forgotten.


He then nervously scrambled to find the prism
that had produced the screeching noise.

The object was stone and ore, yet buzzed with magnetic strength.
He thought it could be worth an exchange for food.

Incessantly, a heartbeat pulsated in its vertices.


The city was fire, rains of brilliant smokes
breathing death downwards.
The air was ash. The streets were dead.

The ovens, high as towers, tongues of whiteness
licking black stones.
Their product was pure light.

Liquid rays slipped into drains.
The blinding sky, always illuminated
by the gleam coming from the sewers.


Glass emerging from the desert, towers and shrines
of gleaming blasphemy and materialism.

Its shaped shifted, an architecture of white.
Lights were said to create impressions of self,
its walls a beckoning promise.

It was the capital. A burnished torch.
A most gargantuan siren.


Some mountains were easily seen, high above,
piercing all clouds in unabridged heights.
Some were not.

Some were hidden, sudden, ephemeral.
Flowed. Were mistaken. Even dreaded.

The strayed fell through obsidian fangs —
were encircled, consumed, and vanished forever.


The rhombic prism absorbed all colors
into an absolute shadow.

At sight, it twinkled; even titillated.
Its stimulation produced light, and sound, and angry shapes.

At touch, its surface resembled the creaking of trees.
Like infinite forests.

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