But no farther than the walls which guards you,
For then the scene changes,
As all you would see shall voice,
Their own tales of tragedy,
Till those screams vaulting freedom dies down,
And the silent catacombs stir awake,
In ash and dust,
Raising ghosts that would scale the wall, this wall,
To take shelter by your hearth,
And of all those who shall heed your reminiscence.
If Illuminated the spectres, will stand,
At the flames lighting long horizons,
Towards a new path, towards a new world,
Yet unknown and unchanged,
Awaiting the distant dust of their march.
O Witness, who saw true,
O Descendant, who braved,
When you tousle the wordless shards,
Know that the mirror then would reflect neither the stillness of time,
Nor the ember notes of progress,
But would turn opaque, uncertain,
As is all that resides,
On the other side.
For it is by the brink of one’s eye,
Where the blindness begins.