The Age of Fire

Fire, man’s true best friend; a friend that gave us life during difficult times, helped us prosper, gave us warmth, delicious food and strength. We were also warned to use it carefully because, as it lights our way, it can also hurt and destroy whatever lies ahead. But, fire’s dangerous side was always beaten by its helpful one and so we kept the fire close to ourselves and it made us rise above other forms of life; the ones that did not made friends with the dancing flames.

As we realized the true power of fire, we had to learn how to keep it tamed, controlled; otherwise it could hurt all those who had not made friends with it, but also the ones who did. So we kept the fire secured, locked and guarded. It couldn’t hurt anyone and we used it when we had the need for it. But little did we know that fire, just like anything else, doesn’t like to be locked and tamed. Our ignorance didn’t let us realize that the fire we keep is becoming more and more sad, less and less content, more and more angry, less and less friendly. People that were guarding it tried to make it happy again, fed it daily, praised it, talked to it; but they didn’t realize that fire didn’t lack attention, it lacked freedom. Freedom was something that we got used to so much that we didn’t know something, like fire, misses it.  And although we fed the flames, their fury was soon out of control. We tried to calm the fire, but it only seemed to have made it angrier.

The day that the fire finally chose to act upon was indeed out of control. Fire broke out of our prisons, containers, shrines and houses and it started to spread, everywhere, like a giant invincible monster hungrily eating everything in its path. It started to fall from the sky like rain, it flew through the air like a flock of great eagles, it drained the land with its flow as a huge red river. The commotion and fear it created, caught us by surprise and we were not able to do anything; the furious flames raged on, devouring everything in their path, attacking other living beings and us, from all sides, coming out of all possible places, pouring out of every, even the smallest of holes. In desperation, we started to cry, as there was nothing else we could do. The flames raged next to us until they heard our crying and they paused to look at us. In one moment, the flames stopped and looked back, at everything they’ve destroyed and they felt pity and regret; they decided to stop with their raging destruction and let us put the fires out with our tears. And so we cried more, now with joy, and the fires were yet again under control, the land prospered once more and we got to a conclusion; we realized that we cannot close something as wild as fire and tame it to be our servant. We knew that fire will help us if we help it; if we let it roam and be free from time to time, let it pour out of the prison and be carried away by the wild, perpetual winds.

The Age of the Winds

The movements of the pleasant winds have always told us stories; stories of places that are far away, stories of times that are long gone. The wind can cross any mountain, sail across all the seas, bring the distant smells, the water, the earth, the fire. Along with their gifts, they can, however, bring the pain and awful stories of death. We listened to them whispering and upon hearing the stories of pain, we ran to save and help. The winds and their stories were our guides, telling us of the ones who need our help, giving us a chance to save them or at least try.

But one day, we decided not to listen. The winds cried out a story of suffering, but we were tired of saving, tired of listening to the winds. They cried a few more times, not being able to accept our decision, but then, they left. Finally alone in silence, we celebrated; we were free, able to do what we want, when we want it and all that just because we decided that we no longer want to know who needs our help. The winds were sad; they alone could not help, but only watch and cry for the poor and look at us as we danced with our backs turned to those that died. It made the winds more than just sad; it made them angry. They were here to carry the messages, the stories, the cries and the joys. So, first, they stopped carrying the joys. We didn’t notice there was something wrong, not immediately, but soon, we had no wind playing and dancing for us; the air was stiff, the water like oil, the crops withering like old men, bent over our fields. The warmth made us tired, the hunger made us desperate. Now, we were the ones that cried for help. But the winds ignored us, enjoying the view of us pleading for salvation, until they felt the sadness once more. Still angry, but sad, they decided to act.

It was the little breeze that woke up one of the last surviving men; a little chilly wind that started playing with our hair, surface of the sea, the wheat. And as the survivors looked up at the hills, they saw the glorious winds, coming along with the people that were once left to die by our ignorance; they were now coming towards us, with the winds, to help us stand once more. Wonderful storytellers and great speakers, the winds, once mad at our decision, destroying us with pure silence, now coming back to save our lives. They told us never to forget the mistakes of the past, but bring only the best of us into the future.

The Age of the Giants

Giants are always the first ones; running, across our lands, stomping, roaring, devouring. The unstoppable giants, always the first to come, first to live, first to destroy and first to go. But they never truly fade; their greatness is always here.

It is always at the time of giants that the story starts. They walk the Earth and their rulership, amazing and stronger than anything else is what fills the world with awe. They make the rules of the strength, rules of fierce power. Moving with the mountains, they move the Earth itself, along with life and pure existence. The land trembles at the mere mentoin of their name because it remembers how it once trembled while they walked.

Once before, when they walked, they were in all shapes and all of the gigantic sizes. They whispered to the Earth, they fed of it and lived of it. Their pleasant, long and mysterious lives were not questioned or seen by the eyes of the mortals. But there was more to life than that. The giants did not want anyone else to live beside them, so they stomped throughout the world in search of those that bothered them, the ones who tried to live next to them. And as they searched, so they found; they decided to destroy and devour, not caring about the consequences. It was against the path of time, but they destroyed and devoured everything that stood in their way, until there was finally nothing left but them. And the felt lonely for the first time in their existence. They experienced the loneliness in all of its power and they felt regret for destroying and devouring everything in their path. The giants were sad and angry with each other.

And so they set out for one more search; a search for redemption. They searched for other life, hoping there will be something they missed, another lonely soul, hiding beneath a rock or high in the trees, but there was none. And they sat and cried, asking for some way to make things right again. After they cried out all the tears, it was told to them that they cannot live with others. If they want anything else ever to live on this Earth, they must go. And they cried again. But, one day, they got tired of crying and they knew what is the thing they must do. Picking up the things they left, scattered around the world, they began a journey and left, leaving this Earth to others.

And in that lies their greatness.

Ages increased

Oh the time and the stones, forever entwined together, crying, living, dying together, while we are just passing by, neglecting their silent calls to tame them. But they will forever be around even after we fade.

The time will roll over the hills and mountains, pass the endless seas and engulf the world, over and over again, unstoppable and infinite. Circling, it gently flies among us, watches over us and never leaves us. The ticking clocks are its sound, even though time itself leaves no trace behind while it travels swiftly, passing us by.

The stones stand still, growing, decaying, falling as we stroll among them and their soft everlasting stillness. Proud and strong they will still stand, even after we are long gone. Slowly fading behind, they will survive and leave a trace, a mark, a scar in the Earth’s face, constant and silent. And we will pass them by, wave at them, use them, but their endless wisdom will survive.

Time and stones, unstoppable and still, swift and fading; although they are different, their connection is deep and endless. The time leaves the scars in the stone, the stone tells us stories about a long lost time. Forever together, like twins, they will live until the end of time and the end of stone.

And none bore a name, and no destinies were ordained

Do we think about the palaces? Do we remember the glory of the peaceful palaces that flourished, surrounded by the waves and surviving because of their mercy? Why did our souls fly so far away from the palaces? We long not for the peace; we seek to struggle. And as much as we struggle, the more the palaces sink deeper down towards the filthy mud, crying for the days of glorious banquets. 

Sometimes, if you listen to the silence, you can actually hear the voices of the ancients, when they shout, laugh, sing and dance during the glorious banquets; you can hear the clash of kylixes instead of swords and instead of blood, the wine pours down on the marble floors. Sometimes, if you look with your eyes closed, you can see the games of the ancients, their steps, their glory, happiness, achievement and the divine battle that does not involve swords; in their games, they worship the man as he is, they stop the war and they play together. Sometimes, if you read between the lines, you can read the lost lore of poems, still carved to our memories, somewhere deep down in our minds. But do we ever listen, look od read without using our five sense?

Our memories cannot be reached through the five senses. You can only feel them, somewhere, somehow, far away, out of this world.

When of the gods none had been called into being

The rising smoke and suffocating fires were the sign. But we somehow missed it. Would you worship the blazing flames? They cried for us just as we cried because of them. But we knew they are sacred. The light during the dark, death during apocalypse; the fires marked us as nothing else

We always knew that the gray smoke was never a good sign; after the smoke, we were overwhelmed by burning rivers of red fury that consumed everything in its path. Shall we cry? No, we should praise the stopped time and ponder about the burning crops, disappearing houses, asphyxiated men and learn the lesson; admire the flames from the distance. We tried to understand, to touch the very fire that kills, we wanted to be so close, to use it and everything that it offered. But once it got tired, weary from service, it exploded with rage, many times and stopped the time with its power. 

For so long we have been using it that we forgot all about its sacred lore; we don’t worship the flames, we use them as slaves. But all slaves get tired one day. So shall the fire.

And no field was formed, no marsh was to be seen

Forever in my dreams is the sand. Sand everywhere, like the ocean, burnt from the ever-heating Sun and with eternity carved deeply to its roots. The glimpse of it that I remember is so very strong that it blinds all other memories of mine. That endless sand built one of the finest achievements and left one of the finest examples of memories and monuments surviving together. Tears block my vision when I remember the sand and its history. The stones were so very bright and so sharp, new and shiny, waiting to be looked upon until the end of time. And still, they stand, old and dusty, but more glorious than ever; now they speak of the past that we have forgotten. They scream, but we can’t hear their voices. We are deaf and blind because of our greed and ignorance, and we don’t look with our eyes closed, we don’t read between the lines and we don’t listen to the silence. 

Their height penetrates the stars; and the stars tremble when they look at the sand. The shine of the stars barely reflects the real shine of the monuments; the shine of proud mysteries and the glow of immortality. And although they are far greater than the stars, they shyly point at them telling us countless stories of inexplicable legends and ages so remotely known, but so old that even the stars weep for them. Sometimes I wonder what was that great inspiration that led them, and me, to show respect to the stars through such remarkable deeds, far ahead of the time itself; to settle in that dry land of the sand; was it only the river, only the hunger, only the need to survive? Or was it something far greater, something unknown even to us, back then, something that can still be found, only if we look with our eyes closed, listen to the silence and read between the lines. 

Come to the sand and weep for us and our river and our stars. For they will once more know the pride that they once had. And the stars will twinkle stronger.

And the earth beneath did not yet bear a name

Terminally ill, my heart ponders; where to go and how? Can you escape your life and destiny? You cannot just leave and admire the ocean, play in the woods, search for the past and gaze upon the stars. In order to speak of my memories, I must feel the things that my soul is missing. Even so, my soul craves to speak; to reach out to the forgotten lore.

It was at times of pillars and fountains that I ran across the rocky paths, carrying thoughts of distant winds. Thoughts of clashing swords, howling arrows, rivers of blood, but also of subtle poetry, singing stone, floating melodies and joined hearts. In their glory, the monuments still stood proudly, some pure white, some gloriously painted, the wind deviating among them, the sun heating them up and the Moon showing shiny reflections.

The winds were not always pleasant. Nor were the waves or the Sun. We rose and we fell countless times, but only once was our fall so fierce that we left nothing but memories. All of our glorious monuments were gone; and we were gone with them. Why does nobody care for our memories but only for the monuments? What about our souls? Are they not worthy of knowledge?

I remember my cold feet on the rocky path, looking towards something that used to be my home. And I know that my first home waits for me to return and run across its rocky paths, to carry the thoughts of distant winds, to pray and hide, smile and play among the harbours and rivers, to look upon its magnificent marble and the halls of knowledge.

I can hold and wait for the winds to return and my soul to gaze inside the ocean. I know that my home bravely waits with all of its glorious memories. It waits for my return below the distant chasms, hidden deeply away from the world. And my heart pounds together with the heart of Earth.

When in the height heaven was not named

My soul is old. It travelled across time, unnoticed, unseen, untamed. And if only I could remember them all; the dust, the wind, the sand, the waves, the sky of olden times; and if I could fly back to them and if I could touch them, see them, hear them and feel them once more; for I know I once slept under the open skies, under monuments of eternity, under Orion and the everlasting Pleiades, near the gods, Cyclops and satyrs; and I remember the dance with the winds, with snakes, with jackals, with jaguars and with the wolves, with the waves and stones; and if I could dance with them once more, my soul would once more be young.

Words will fade one day, but the memories will stay. What a torture to our souls! Our tortured souls trapped in machines, trapped in cages, bleeding for the sand, crying for the waves.

Remember my soul. Once the words fade, the memories will be the only thing that remain. And although they are only memories, only in my mind and only once have they been spoken, you will realize that they are far more important than any words; living or dead, written or not. Words will still be my tool as my soul will howl for the past.