Vestige of history

Here lies the  tomb of lost gods

An epitaph of rememberance, a warning towards our kind.

Creed them to us, that we are but a preverse kind, begging to be understood.

Far from the time when human ascended in glory, when they fell in honors.

We are but writers and tinkers, commemorating the day we were born and false joyful moments. We are the desperates, striving to be Immortal by sending words to future generations, documenting knowledge with numerous labels and sobriquets so that they would know.

“It was I who found such invention, it was him who build such greatness, and it was my descendants – people under my lineage – who become the wealthy and the illustrious.”

Then I stood by.

In front of the damp, forgotten ruins.

A faint stammer all around me, telling me and the world of a tragic we should know.

That history is written for the victor, not for the true.


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