Death of Memory

A hard built castle, both tall, and unyielding. Renowned for its beauty, and the quality of craft. Center of respect, worship, and the heart of envy. Allwho lived, knew of nothing more, and of nothing better. Halls of fierce Ruby, deep Sapphire, and noble Gold. The pinnacle of all, and pinnacle forever.
Countless stories told in song, as long as millennia. Echoes of the monolith’s presence transcended both physical boundary, and the walls of time. The most wonderful of wonders, as it were sold. Unrivaled by other attempts, both new and old. Absolute in every way, as it would seem, but truly numbered in its days.
Vicious storms, and the wrath of weather wore it down. But amidst the Tempest, the tower refused to fall. Men, clad in hateful steel. Armed in desire, and shielded in rage. War declared, and fought not in days. Many moons passed, and the castle was left unclaimed. It halls, both stripped clean and left bare. No man, woman, child, not even air remained. Ah, though beaten black, and beaten blue, the castle still refused to crumble in full. No storm, man, nor war could end it all. A colder, harsher foe lurked ever near, always waiting just around the bend. And only it would beget this marvel’s end. From stones to dust, and from dust to wind.
An invisible force, seen by all, but recognized by few. Some would doubt, but it’s existence stayed true. It was only with time that its presence became clear. Ah, and so it was, the death of the tower was finally here.
From verses chanted by boisterous choir, with power dwarfing volcano’s ire, hushed to mere whispers fallen on deaf ears. From truths unchallenged, with evidences bold, dismissed as fairytales and legends old. No honor, no soul. Aye, all is gone. Every brick and every stone, but another piece in the pile of never-lasting treasure. No remnants of a tower that survived, man, war, and even weather.
To this day, no sadder ballad escapes the lips. The words contained are all stressed, and pained. If told in art of tapestries, it’s fabrics would all be as black a pitch. Sewn-in sorrow with every stitch. The signs of tragedy, the Death of Memory.

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