I know there are places that yearn to be free. I hear the whispers from deep within the springs of wells, of lands that once boasted verdant luxuriance, free from the dust and grime, pillage and hate, to awaken renewal, to reclaim their rightful heritage.
They were once places of greatness, footholds of kings and princes, lords and majesty. This mighty imperial greatness was surrounded by the treasures befitting their vast kingdoms.
Those who traversed the imperial lands were affluent, condemning the once disproportional, their heritage denounced, and disowned. They have deserted their virtues. Richness has clouded their senses and the soles of their feet are torched as they learn to feel the ground where once they tread with their feet raised.
The hardships of the saddened have befallen them.
But then I speak now of the places and not of its people. The lands are caught between the forsaken and the ruins. The heritage they symbolize has been shattered and torn.
How hazardous the ruins - that no one can restore the stalwart greatness of the lands without remembering the echoes of the past.
The springs of wells await to breathe life into their lands once more.
