The soft, and mellow tune, whispering in the shifting sands and passing through the ancient columns, a moment in my ear and gone. Such music in this deserted place of fallen, crumbling gods. I wander through the temple while the winds whistle in and out among the long forgotten passageways where no one walks but I. The desert buries, slowly, one grain at a time, until all sinks under the rolling dunes, but like the weeping of the sea, you still can hear the things that were. With patience, you can dig them out.
A temple here, its priests long gone, its walls in ruin, its gods, abandoned gods, defaced by wind and sand and time. Still, something sings, some broken melody remains, a brokenhearted memory of what once was harmony. The strain of voices that cannot be heard nor understood by those who are alive, at least their call is felt. The weight of all that was is here.
And I know who else is here as well, waiting in his darkness. I can tell you of his preparations, of the strange spells written onto his linen wraps, of the wicked rites, the sacrifice of innocents, how they were burned before blasphemous images, the whispers of the undertakers embalming a living man; I can tell you that he remains, buried in the sands, whispering in the darkness.
Tale Told 