Roxaboxen

(for while you read: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3UGZWCQdjM)


I picked my way through the heap of growths that had claimed the road. The towers of the once proud city have fallen to axe, and now lay down as ghosts, leaves long under the dirt.

Oh mighty place, you are desolate. So quick to give to time and all of its characters. Beings coming and going, unknown in my absence.
                                                                     
                                                                The wars that have raged, the dark that has descended; I can only imagine. I was not here to watch over you. Now all I see is a plain and dry lot in the woods. Your walls gone, your paths forgotten, your houses in shambles. The wolves pass through you unchecked, and there is no human to see your wilderness- none with eyes, it seems.

Your once mighty river has fallen beneath me. It is not a worthy stream, just another seam in the earth for the morning dew to slide down. I would blow a closing trump if I had a horn, I would close you with a prayer- but there is no spirit left to farewell. There is no spirit or soul here anymore.

They have cut your hair bald, and ripped your dressings from you. Your teeth have been cracked and pulled, your eyes seared and shot. I do not know you. And I sat there trying.

 You have been had by the hands of adults who did not care, and of children who were not told. We only left our ropes and buckets, our sheets of steel, our footprints that quickly disappeared into the shifting ground of the woods. We should have told the children. We should have carved our story in a tree; left a note…

But the legends are lost and who can tell them? And who am I to say? For those who had kingdoms before ours, and we heard them not? And we did not know them?