Like a cliff of stubborn stone,
Unmoved by time, untouched, alone.
Thus, the edicts carved in past,
Etched in rock, designed to last.

They worship gods in silent halls,
Raise their prayers, yet hear no calls.
Weave their mantras, soft and deep,
Yet let their meanings fall asleep.

They bow, they kneel, they bend with grace,
Not from will, but fear's embrace.
Hiding behind a whispered creed,
Too afraid to plant new seed.

Cowards? No, they stand so tall,
Angry? No, they bear it all.
Yet where is thought that dares to grow?
Where is light that dares to glow?

Like a river, fierce and wide,
That grinds down stone with ceaseless tide.
Yet never dares to split, to stray,
Forever bound to one fixed way.

They are not birds in open sky,
Nor wanderers who seek and try.
But anchored boats in harbors dim,
Adrift in fate, yet never swim.

They fear the dark, the path unknown,
Lest they fall from faith they own.
They shut their eyes to distant flames,
Silence winds that whisper names.

They long for skies so bright, so clear,
Without the storm, without the drear.
Yet they forget, light is not pure,
For shade and shadow must endure.

They lock their doors, they block their ears,
They cast aside the foreign seers.
A tower stands with blinded view,
A prison cell without a clue.

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Scarlatan, in the year 967 AF.