...Dead grass stretched for miles around the ancient stone pillars worn by the traffic of day and night. Scattered at his feet ancient helmets and chipped swords as evidence of times of war covered the arid land that tried to recover its first colors and essences. On broken spears and broken shields of forgotten banners, perhaps important at the time, but today no one even recognizes them, collapsed blocks of stone try to stand up like tree roots clinging to the ground to bear witness to those dark times. The few trees that escaped from that past found their place in the fortress of the stones on which they expanded forming a lush forest of hard and rough feet that shake with hope before the morning breezes that throw their humidity and life with the song of the birds. Hidden behind that foliage lies stairs, marble statues dedicated to primitive gods and inscriptions, perhaps of prayers, in which the branches and roots of the new forest sink deep, rendering them illegible, while those green and gray colors with their earthy aroma hides corridors waiting to be walked again to discover the treasure of calamities, the treasure for which entire kingdoms gave even their last daughter to defend it, leaving scars of ash and blood on the dead grass that surrounds the monolith that waits during the day and the night the arrival of the children of the children to release the power of that treasure, the seed of Andalas.
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