Start Again
You have been pouring over the wrong artifacts. The trinkets that are splayed across airline brochures are replicas from a previous more ornate kingdom. They were famed for having eaten their children after one crop failure. Have you crept softly after historians with a genuine expectation for clarity? The conveyor belt that pushes them out for consumption may fill advisories boards and classrooms, but gems of our past can not be sucked through a straw of advertisement. Your scholars have sold me across the world, even to nations that warred against us over granaries. You have me standing at a diminutive five foot four because everything has come to you by a corrupt relay. Put down the baton. Exchange your sprint for a careful walk.
Begin strong. Those are not my bones. Part-time excavators have scrapped together the remains of some two-bit merchant that did not have the requisite papers to address me. The garb is too long and the shoes are peasant by any standard. Pick a century. Do you think I was accustomed to dripping sweat before dignitaries? Our heels never callused. Your sites are Mesopotamian. You would need a horse with two days supply of provender to arrive before my halls.
Credit must be given to eastern museums. They spend way more time on our tributaries rather than weapons we never made. Our warfare was imported. The key to knowing us can only come by our water ways. Your documentarians would be feed to our gallows if our timelines could kiss for just a year. They unnecessarily double the vowel sounds in our names. When in truth our sentences sound like an active blow dart. Our tongues were not given over to the excesses of poetry and song. Your instructors would be taken for spies. My God! Who speaks into the air showing both rows of teeth for an hour other than to give up a location to scouts? Speech is meant to be one room over from alarm. Most of our hours were kept in silence. Would you also have our high court arrayed in baseball caps? Peal the sticker price from off your text book and borrow the eyes of the dead.
Adventurer, knowledge is a wonderful thing, but do not try to find me. For what cause, to put me back together? Shine a flashlight on our ruins and witness the fathoms of your regression beneath our discontinued paradise. Covet not! Do not attempt to recover what swallowed us alive. I inaugurated an age that weavers and hunters were not equipped to touch much less understand. We connected our huts to the stars and were burned in due course.
