Ruins

Leaves rustled. Whispering into the dark of the night. A night disturbed by the lonely calls of the owl or the sound of a cricket colony. A wind that carries whispers to the dark clouds. A sense of tranquil. A dry twig crackles under a quadruped that treads the narrow silent path. A path drenched by blood of comfit perhaps. A path covered by flowers of exuberance. A path ending in stones. Stones that tell a story. A story of lanterns that smoked when arrows were fired. When bellowing cries disturbed the watching owls . When man and steel met their match in each other. Where victory was defeat and the vanquished won. A story of war and a story of valor. Of seven foot soldiers clad in iron armors carrying spears drenched in blood of the enemy.

A night that comes alive to the strategists in their quarters watching keenly with wrinkled brows on parchments of maps to decide who next to martyr and whose head to wreck.

A stone creak that must have held a torch, how many hands had smeared blood on it. How many backs had drenched it with sweat. How many cries has it heard and how much has it seen to remember.

A leaf is free to drift apart. The wind cajoles it to fall on the sand. A footprint. That tells the story of burdens unknown. Of a past untold. Of secrets carried forth. A footrprint tired from the world afar, waiting to stop but fearing the still. And the leaf falls in its ridges. A foot that set on the sand of the wars. To rest with irony the turmoils in its own. To seek from the rampants the blocks to build its life and to find dulcets in the heart wrenching cries. A foot that set itself on the mission to defeat, what was won and lost many a time. To scale an conquer what was belittled and bloated in history many a time. When the foot conquered the rampant peak, who was the vanquished and who won the war. When man set himself against nature, who was the victor and who stood in shame.

Until next time ruins, when again I need to build me, I would look into you for the strength.