The Watcher’s Scroll of the Latter Days 

The Watcher’s Scroll of the Latter Days 

Hearken, O children of the turning age,
And incline thine ear unto the wandering wind;
For through the dust a troubled whisper walks,
Bearing the memory of forgotten things.
The wind remembereth what flesh forgetteth,
And the earth yet holdeth the echo of its Maker.

I stood upon the hill where watchmen wake,
Where night and dawn contend upon the sky,
And there beneath my gaze the cities lay—
A sea of lamps in windows bright as stars.

Yet though the lights of men burned strong without,
Within their hearts the lesser lamps grew dim.
Few set their candles high against the dark;
Many concealed their flame beneath the world.

The streets were filled with iron, coin, and haste.
The clang of labor rang through narrow ways.
The smell of smoke and bitter bread arose,
And dust lay thick upon the tongues of men.

Brother passed brother with averted gaze,
As strangers passing in a foreign land.
The cry within the gate found no reply;
The wounded voice fell silent in the wind.

Thus was the lesson spoken quietly—
Not by decree, nor trumpet from a throne,
But in the thousand moments of the day:

The slow instruction of indifference.

For kingdoms fall not only by the sword,
Nor cities burn by thunderbolts alone;
But silence of the heart may shake the world
More deeply than the roar of war.

And minute by minute, like falling sand
Through the narrow glass of numbered hours,
The harshness of the world wore down the soul
As waters wear the patience of the stone.

Teach us, O mortal hearts, to number time,
Ere vessel break and silver cord be loosed;
For breath is lent but briefly unto dust.

Once were there sayings among the people:

Be gentle.
Be kind.
Love thy neighbor as thyself.

These words were spoken as a simple fire
That warmed the house of human fellowship.

Yet now those sayings faded from the stones
Like ancient letters worn by storms of years.
Still truth, though buried deep beneath the moss,
Doth sleep, awaiting those who seek its root.

Then I beheld a change in human eyes.

A glazing, like abandoned windows dim
Where once the hearth-fire danced against the night.
Warmth fled the chambers of the human face;
And man became a stranger unto man.

Their glances struck like iron striking iron—
Not to sharpen, but to wound and spark.

The old law rose from dust of former ages:

An eye for an eye.
A wound for a wound.

And justice, hungering beyond its bounds,
Began to taste of vengeance more than truth.

The air grew thick with bitterness and smoke;
One felt it settle cold upon the skin.
The scent of anger lingered in the streets
Like embers breathing under ashen pride.

Love waited long beside the human door,
Yet none received her at the threshold.

Then I beheld the faces in the streets
And scarcely knew the race of humankind.
For every man wore haste as though a cloak,
And weariness like iron on the brow.

Even the mirror gave me back a face
That seemed a traveler from forgotten lands.

Something within the soul of humankind
Had shifted like the earth beneath a quake.

The foundations trembled under hidden pride.

And through the wind there traveled then a voice,
A question wandering through the tribes of earth:

What hath love to do with these our days?
Who now esteemeth meekness as a strength?
Who now regardeth mercy as a crown?

For what had long been hidden in the heart
Rose now and walked beneath the open sun.

Pride climbed the sky like Babel raised again,
Its towers built not only out of stone
But out of boastful thought and hungry will.

Anger walked boldly through the marketplaces.
It bartered loudly in the crowded stalls
As though wrath itself were wisdom.

Falsehood clothed itself in robes of truth
And sat within the councils of the honored,
Borrowing the tongue of righteousness.

And some rejoiced in cruelty.
They laughed where wounds cried out for gentle hands.

Then did I lift mine eyes toward earthly thrones.

High above the restless sea of men
Sat rulers clothed in garments bright with power.
Their crowns were steady though the streets grew cold;
Their scepters gleamed though charity lay broken.

And a wondering rose within my spirit:

Why do kings always look like kings?

Is it the crown that fashions such a face,
Or hunger in the hearts of men that makes the crown?

Doth the diadem instruct the brow in pride,
Or doth desire anoint whom fear obeys?

For though the kingdoms tremble in their bones,
Still rulers walk as though ordained by heaven.

Again the riddle pressed upon my soul:

Why do kings always look like kings?

Is power drawn to power as iron to stone?
Doth dominion know its own reflection
As deep calleth unto deep?

Or do the people carve their kings themselves,
Shaping their rulers from the rock of fear—
Then bowing down before their handiwork?

For when love fades within the hearts of men
New kings arise wearing ancient faces.

There is little new beneath the sun,
Save the names by which old hungers speak.

Thus grew the riddle heavier than before:

Why do kings always look like kings?

Perhaps the throne outliveth every king.
The seat endureth longer than the bones
Of those who briefly wore its weight.

Or perhaps dominion walks the earth unseen,
Seeking the vessel willing to receive it—
Passing through kingdoms like a restless wind.

Then trembled I before the answer near.

For truths knock softly at the doors of men
Yet strike like hammers once they enter in.

If hearts grow cold among the multitude,
Then shall their kings resemble winter also.

As bitter wells yield bitter water drawn,
So do the rulers mirror those they rule.

Yet if the hearts remember mercy’s fire,
Even the mighty shall bow low before it.

For no crown stands so high upon the earth
That it cannot kneel before what is holy.

Then said I in the quiet of my soul:

Surely the dust of Hell hath stirred itself
And rises slowly through the breath of men.

Its ash fell lightly on the robes of day.
Its bitterness was tasted on the tongue.

Compassion fled like startled dove from branch
And wandered long to find a resting place.

Yet lo—

The story had not reached its final word.

For even in the deepening of the night
A whisper moved beneath the weight of dark.

Soft as oil upon a wounded brow,
Steadfast as roots beneath the winter soil.

The ancient promise had not died away.
Though many had forgotten it,
It had not forgotten them.

And through the storm there came a quiet voice:

Though darkness gather thick upon the earth
And many hearts grow colder than the grave,

Though wickedness boast loudly in the streets
And weary souls ask whether dawn still lives—

Yet shall the smallest ember of true love
Outshine the vast dominion of the night.

For what is small within the eyes of men
May overturn great mountains in its hour.

The night is loud with tumult and with fear,
Yet morning keepeth faith with its return.

Though watchmen weary waiting for the dawn,
The sun remembereth the path it walks.

Though men forget their first humanity,
The breath that formed them still calls them home.

For dust remembereth its Maker.

Therefore take heed, O wandering world.

Mark well the crossing where the nations stand.

For every age must choose between two roads:

One descendeth into ashes born of hate.
One ascendeth toward the light of mercy.

The first is wide and filled with clamor loud;
The other narrow, found by contrite hearts.

The choice of men shall write the coming days,
For seeds are sown not only for the sower
But for the children yet to walk the earth.

Thus speaketh the Watcher of the hill—

He who beheld the dimming of the lamps,
Yet also saw the stubborn living spark
That would not yield though storms assailed the night.

Blessed is that flame.

For neither wind nor empire nor the long assault of darkness
Shall wholly quench the light
That heaven planted in the heart of man.

Written by Marguerite Grace

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