Of stone on mountaintops did builders create their great city. Casting a record of the passage of their lives into a far-flung and uncertain destiny. Those people, the heart and life blood, are dried up, lurking ghosts in the bones of dead civilization. We visit as admirers to the graveyard.
Surely, this too cautions. Greatness is a temporary condition, hard wrought, and easily burned away. Did the highborn here watch as a fiddler played? Perhaps they lost their footing, while looking down on those below.
Mysteries turn into lessons. Lessons ignored and repeated. Under the wheel we all must go.
Picture is by Geraint Rowland. (100 words)