As an archeologist might, I found their words.
Ancient, scattered, echoing.
Beckoning.
Truth and time endure.
Monastic, sages, monoliths, a warning.
These wall-stones are wondrous—calamities crumpled them, these city-sites crashed, the work of giants corrupted. The roofs have rushed to earth, towers in ruins. Ice at the joints has unroofed the barred gates, sheared the scarred storm—walls have disappeared—the years have gnawed them from beneath.
To forsake light begets dark.
To reject bliss delivers sorrow.
To abandon virtue invites evil.
And their words were scrawled.
Are still scrawled, now, profound.
On pillar and boulder and grotto.
Beware a new dark age, invading.
Our clear-eyed elders saw.
And their words are a call to arms.
Foretold, this necessary renaissance.
A grave grip holds the master crafters, decrepit and departed, in the ground’s harsh grasp, until one hundred generations of human nations have trod past. Subsequently this wall, lichen-grey and rust-stained, often experiencing one kingdom after another, standing still under storms, high and wide—it failed.
I am granite. Carve into me. Unto me.
Who cautions tomorrow?
If not for the heretics and clerics of the day.
New, young, fresh elders, squirming, birthing.
You, I, we enlightened stonemasons.
Hemorrhaging our words from blistering chisels.
Paper is too fragile for the task at hand.