Grass grew between the stones, retaking its old friend. A tree had toppled yesterday's purpose, rupturing the wall. The long quiet lived upon the battlement and peered through a crenel. The swallows hallowed the forest keep as temple to their trees. A reverence toward the old dead gods that crafted the monument bred in them, their final worshipers.
Can you hear the echo of a child's laugh? It dashes through the halls, East to West, singing time in its lapse. It reflects and merges with the tears of mourning years, being of kind. Life has used these rocks. It has stood and fallen on sandstone land. Breathed in the dust and expelled the fear.
Remember its banners: proclaiming the joy of a family, they bent and danced in wind. Remember its fires: warmth crawled the rooms and light stood fast against a night. Remember the songs: merriment and lament, epic and ribald, life exerted.
Has the fastness died with its inhabitants? Or do its stories pump blood? Does the bulwark still hold off invasion in glorious verse? Is the high window still a view to the maid aloft? Are the outer courts still noisy with memory? Does the knight still ride out in errant adventure?
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