Forgotten Cities

There are forgotten cities, hundreds of them, buried beneath the earth, raining with loose dirt and woven with roots and vines. Or on mountaintops, shrouded by mist, air crisp and cold. Or in the deepest, darkest regions of ancient forests, thick with old oaks and yews, shadowy save for a few stray shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy. Some are young, still legends in the oldest and cloudiest minds of men, some were born and died eons ago. All forgotten in different ways. Some, battlefields, left out of sadness, wastelands that over time were overgrown with foliage. Some cities were abandoned for others, pillars and walls left standing, blown to dust by the wind. Some drained dry of their riches, earth scorched black by fire, iron dug out beneath mountains, mines empty of veins or ore. These forgotten cities are alive in their own way, networks of secret streets and structures ripe with myth. It is in the carvings in stone, of stags with three horns, rampant lions and horses with single twisting horns. It is in the gilded scrolls of parchment so old they are reduced to grey dust with the lightest touch. It is in the faded paint on a map of river lines as intricate as veins. It is in the armouries, treasuries and libraries where sit blades and vases, crowns and daggers, bibles and compasses. Myth and legend are the only legacy these cities will pass on. Stories will be told, written, words changed until what truth they one told is now a different truth altogether. In time, the old stories will no longer exist. In time, the mountains will wear away to pebbles. The rivers will dry. The trees will wizen and crumble. ARtifacts will be buried, as much a part of the earth as rock and soil. Scrolls and books, histories, will be tangled among tree roots. The blood of those cities' people will be as diluted as a glass of wine in the ocean. There will be nothing to suggest those cities ever existed, that they ever stood tall and grand, looking down on lesser kingdoms. That they ever celebrated their conquests or mourned their loved ones. That they ever killed or cried or fought. That they ever sang or danced or drank. That the streets were ever full of merchants, blacksmiths, bards. There will be nothing. There will be nothing at all.

Text by Lucie MacAulay