Long, long ago, there were wanderers.They carried tattered tents and ancient laws across deserts, through hostility and exile.They said:

“We are the dispossessed, but our ancestors promised us:the stones upon that mountain will become our home.”

At last, they reached the mountains.They gathered stones, turned tents into houses, carved caves into walls.Then they declared:

“This is the Promised Land. We have returned.”

People from the foothills came and said:

“We have always lived here.”The wanderers frowned:“You are not us.You remember neither exile, nor the ancient laws.”

The mountain dwellers replied:

“But we were born here.We farmed these lands, buried our dead in these valleys.Our names, too, are carved into these stones.”

After a silence, the wanderers said:

“You may stay—but stay obedient.”

Thus rose the City Upon the Stone.Stones piled higher, behind them guns.Behind guns, laws.Behind laws, gods.

They carved new words into their codes:

“Self-defense. Rebuilding. Protection. Prosperity.”

Years passed. Their children grew up knowing nothing of exile—only that stones were always thrown from beyond the wall.

“They are rioters!” said the children.

Someone whispered:

“Those stones once guided your ancestors through the desert.”No one listened.

So the walls thickened.The guards multiplied.Anyone in worn shoes was deemed an enemy.Every child’s cry beyond the wall became:

“The spawn of terror.”

One day, a child ran into the temple clutching a yellowed scroll.

“I found a verse—‘Do not oppress the stranger,for you were once slaves in a foreign land.’”

A man on the high platform sneered:

“That was for our ancestors—not today’s enemies.”

The child asked:

“But what if we have become the oppressors?”The man stood, snatched the scroll, and replied:“Then we rewrite it.”

Outside the walls, the night wind still blew—over bombed-out rooftops,through ruins where mothers clutched their children.

An old man stacked stone upon stone, whispering:

“These aren’t weapons.They’re memories.If they deny us a life of dignity—we’ll die as our ancestors did.”

Inside the city, some heard the wind.Some heard the stones falling.

“Is it an earthquake?” they asked.

The mirror gave no answer.Only a crack spread through a wall—revealing a buried verse:

“If you forget the path you came by,you’ll walk the road others once fled.”

Epilogue · The Enchanted Mirror Returns

If anyone, upon reading, shouts:

“You’re condemning us!”

The mirror will only gleam:

“I condemn no one.You merely saw yourself.”

If you rush to shatter a nameless mirror—perhaps it’s because you glimpsedwhat you’ve sworn never to acknowledge.

— Postscript to “City Upon Stone”

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