Ancients’ Remains
kay H.
Ghosts of the Golden Heights
We were ghosts upon the Golden Heights,
Oh, Golden Heights—
A name unspoken in the mouths of men,
A name buried beneath centuries of silence,
Only whispered by ruins and sung by the wind.
We wandered in shattered forms, veined with poison,
Chemistry of war still pulsing in our bones.
We stood on broken taluses,
At the rim of the world, where the land
Meets nothingness and time crumbles into dust.
Under the old oaks and hazels,
Bent with the weight of a thousand funerals,
The graves of our ancestors gaped like wounds,
And in that hallowed desolation—
We walked.
The Cemetery of the Heart.
We sifted through dirt, through fossils,
Through the brittle whispers of history.
Our fingers, raw, touched the edges of bones
That once bore the weight of swords and crowns.
We looked skyward with the hollow eyes of owls,
Perched between life and death,
Silent sentinels in the cold gleam of dying stars.
The crickets murmured elegies at our feet,
Their song winding through the cracks in the earth,
Through the fractures in time itself.
And in those cracks, in those silent spaces,
God’s hand had written a history too cruel to bear.
The Forgotten Warriors
They were warriors once—
Not names in books, not statues eroded by the years,
But men of flesh, of fire, of fury.
They walked upon this same sacred ground,
Their footsteps heavy with fate.
Like knights of forgotten sagas,
Like soldiers of the void,
Like kings whose thrones were made of dust—
They were stripped of rank, of banners, of song.
Yet they were my brothers—
Warriors eternal,
Who fought for nothing,
Who bled for nothing,
Who were swallowed by the silence that follows all wars.
They were infantrymen in the storms of kings,
Cavalries galloping into the abyss.
Their bodies broke upon the tide,
Their swords shattered, their names unspoken.
And still—
In the trembling hush of the forgotten world,
They are there.
Through the Ashes of Empires
Through riverbeds, across the jagged spine of mountains,
At the gates of nameless cities, they walked—
Swords, daggers, rifles in their calloused hands,
Following the first warrior, Enkidu,
Marching beneath the banners of Gilgamesh,
Their boots thundering upon the dust of dead empires.
Mercenaries, exiles, wanderers—
The least cruel of all beasts,
Bound not by gold, nor law, nor love—
But by the echo of the past,
By the blood that stains the soil.
I know their faces.
One by one, I have seen them,
Etched in the marrow of the earth.
They were many, once.
Now, they rest—
Wrecked. Broken. Forgotten.
Settled in the deep,
Where worms, reeds, and fish weave their nests
Through the ribcages of the fallen.
There, in the hush of the abyss,
A whisper rose like mist from the bones:
"Hold on, son of man, we are siblings."
We halted.
For the first time, we halted.
With tearing eyes, we saw them—
Not as warriors, not as legends,
But as men.
We remembered their laughter,
Their hands stained with sweat and soil,
Their voices calling out across burning fields.
And for the briefest of moments,
The past and present were one,
And time ceased to move.
The Cry of a Footman
Among kings and judges,
Among priests and prophets,
I alone stood—
A footman among phantoms.
And I screamed.
"Fathers, priests, kings, gods—
You have not warmed the beds of the dead.
Whores would have."
My voice shattered the silence,
Rang against the cold stones,
Echoed in the bones of a thousand nameless men
Who once called this land home.
The Search for What Was Lost
And still, we dug among the ruins,
Kneeling in the wreckage,
Our hands trembling with longing.
We sought precious stones in the remains—
Metaphors pressed into ancient rock,
Scrolls, parchments, forgotten vaults of warriors.
They told us diamonds lay hidden here.
But I knew—
The only thing left to bind my soul
Was the silicon strap still gripping my shattered bone.
The final breath is the breath of gods undone—a hymn sung in the ruins of eternity, before the world ends. Nevertheless, we are ghosts upon the Golden Heights.
The End
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