Young one, hark. Hear my words

and heed them, lest you bleed

upon the sacred earth

our people hold so dear.

That which ails you can be cured,

but at great cost. You will be marked.

 

In the desert is a temple

built not to be entered.

Cross the fields of concrete thorns

that circle it like snakes,

stone beasts that guard

their nest. Nothing grows there.

 

Twist the massive rusted lock.

Be wary – it is a thing made by

automatons of ages past,

searing hot in sun, icy cold

at night, harder than rock

or limestone. It means “please turn back.”

 

You cannot read the temple walls,

but its symbols –

faces contorted in pain,

wilting plants,

strange runes and magic spells –

tell a story no one knows

but all remember. This place is pain.

 

Touch nothing. Something in the air,

or water, earth or somewhere more

demands you, pricks your very veins

with poison that will never vanish.

Sleep there for a dozen nights,

vomit out your illness, let it cleanse you

with its devil-fire, echoing the words

that those before us tried to leave.

 

“It is forbidden to break ground in this place.”

“This is not a place of honor.”