Eastern Winds

The winds of the ancient east sways the ashes of her forgotten kingdoms. Buried beneath the ancient sun's warmth, the memories and voices of the graveless gods and kings echoes fiercely through the hearts of the righteous. What are we and to whom do we pray? Whom is in charge and whom shall conquer these eastern lands once more?

In a world where the Arabian god overshadows her rich and ancient culture, a unique rhythm flows to the hymns of an ancient Persian goddess, and the morale bringers harshly batter upon their war drums. The eastern gods have died, yet the Zoroastrian fire burns. Nimrud has been destroyed, yet the Mesopotamian bulls welcome us through their Ishtar gates. The Hanging Gardens no longer exist, yet the Babylonian qanats shall conquer these dried and harsh soils once again and new gardens shall grow.

We are the children of the survivors of history. We seek yet we do not find, we howl yet we do not convince, we thirst yet we remain unsatisfied; for a kingdom exists in another realm and not ours, in which the man headed bulls rule, the Egyptian Ibis flies, the Persian immortals march, Nebuchadnezzar's statue from his dreams stands erected, the Greek Colossus remains in pride, the eastern sufis dance in their circles of madness, and thus we shall forever remain in search of that in which we shall never find.

The lonesome man from the east plays his flute ceaselessly, sat upon an ancient tree, his rhythms flow with the winds and ashes. He plays for the souls of his ancestors to hear, for such a world has moved onto another realm, and we are the watchers of such which remains in their absence.