The City

There is a kingdom whose name cannot be pronounced by our tongue.
To try and describe it would be to describe a combination of an answer to a long mathematical problem, a forgotten macedonian tradition and a momentary yet lingering look two strangers make on a train.

And in this kingdom, there lived a proud prince.
His parents have long past but he could never take his father's crown.
It didnt feel right, he thought, to be worthy of a crown at his young age.

On Mourningday, he visited the lake of hope and found it dry.
He bent over and looked for fishes but he could not find any.
The trees by the lake were purple colored and tasted like the last day of summer.
He sat by the tree and waited, in case an animal would happen by.

After hours of waiting, he grew restless and decided to move on.
He walked on a steel-coated valley that smelled of years past.
Before he or even his parents were even born, the valley was where a great city used to stand.

This magnificent city had streets paved of gold and buildings made of sheer brilliance.
It was a citadel made of generations of accomplishments passed down to create perfection.
The citizens were intelligent and peaceful, creating new ways for which their city could be better.

At the peak of their existence, a group of strangers arrived at their gates.
They were dressed in strange garments and smelled of new fragrances.
They were courteous, of course, yet there seemed to be a hint of willfullness and pride that was evident in their eyes.
The citizens have never seen such a group, but they were a hospitable society and made the strangers welcome.

A month after, there was nothing left of the magnificent city.

A few citizens, who happened to be outside the walls when it crumbled, tried to rebuild the city.
Magnificence, however, could not be duplicated.
The prince's parents found that out.

The prince makes his way back to his throne; in his empty kingdom.
He finished his tasks on Mourningday, he sits silent and content.

He sits waiting.