Long ago, there was a great city here. It’s ruins are everywhere; under our houses, our farms. When, after a few days hard rain, we find large pieces of poured stone newly exposed, we dig them out and use them to pile higher our walls.
Sometimes we find buried things with writing on them. Twisted, half melted things. Signs, sometimes. We can’t read any of it, no one can, not for many generations now. We write, of course, but our script is different, simpler. I suppose what we write about is, too.
Sometimes I wonder: what was the city called?
Thats a nice drabble :)
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