Dust of Ages
Entry into Forgetting
You walk not by path, but by intuition.
Behind you — the town. Underfoot — dust. Ahead — the rustle of grass and the scent of lemons.
No signs. Only soft wind and the hum of insects.
Somewhere here stood a temple. It both exists and does not. The stones remain, but the blueprint has vanished.
You’re not finding ruins — you’re finding forgetting.
Past Empires: The Nameless Temple
Almost nothing is known about the temple. Maybe Zeus lived here. Maybe Apollo. Maybe just “God.”
In Byzantine times, it may have become a church. Or a storage shed. Or just air.
What remains: a platform, broken columns, chipped carvings with spirals no one worships anymore.
Around it — overgrowth. Lemon trees pressing against the foundations like a green invasion. Some roots have slipped underneath.
The plants are reclaiming what the gods once owned. And yet — the place hums. Silence vibrates here, as if the air remembers a mantra.
The Princess Beneath the Trees
A little off to the side — a stone tomb. Archaeologists cautiously call it “the princess’s grave.”
The sarcophagus is almost intact. The lid slightly shifted.
No one knows who she was — perhaps the daughter of a Roman governor, or just a woman whose death was too beautiful to forget.
Sometimes there are flowers beneath the trees. Sometimes — trash.
The tomb stays silent. It holds no answers, only the echo of lost importance.
The Bath That No Longer Heats
Nearby — the remnants of ancient baths. Byzantine remodeling. Roman logic. Modern apathy.
On the floor — chipped tiles. Beneath them — a cavity where hot air once flowed.
Now, lizards nest there. Dust blooms in place of steam.
Water drips from a collapsed ceiling, even though no aqueduct feeds it.
This isn’t a bath anymore. It’s the chronicle of evaporation.
Gardens Over Ashes
You walk between trees. Lemons, laurel, palms. Everything grows from forgetting.
Tomb foundations, half-buried grottoes, invisible sarcophagi.
Local farmers gather fruit — unaware they’re pulling roots from the hands of history.
Or maybe they know — and simply don’t care.
You push through thorns and find a cracked relief — half a wreath, half a ghost.
It once meant glory. It once meant faith. It once meant form. Now it’s just stone embedded in fertility.
Shadows at the Edge of the Grove
You stand in the center — surrounded by fragments, lemons, and memory.
And suddenly, you realize: a temple without a name is the perfect temple. It demands no cult. It proclaims no identity. It exists simply as a place — a node between eras.
The god who once owned it is gone from the minds of those who live here now. But his space — still here.
Echo in the Citrus
You pluck a lemon and it smells like incense. You look at a stone and see — not architecture, but a broken command the world no longer runs. You hear the bees above — and think you catch a shred of hymn.
Everything here still speaks. But no one listens anymore.
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