Lament of Lea Monde

Alone, ever alone. Though the spirits of the dead join the bitter wind in its howling journey through my empty streets, I am alone. Those empty souls held within my comforting borders are naught more than ghouls.

I am dead.

No vibrant life stirs my dusty rooms; the welcoming halls where wine once flowed from fonts deeper than the faith of those who dwelled in me, who gave me being, stir now only with the passing of a vagrant breeze.

Once I was filled with laughing voices that echoed through my open chambers. Humans flooded through my streets, my open doors, slept in my nooks and corners. Once animals lived here, horses, dogs, and cats, and with the surety of Time, vermin. I teemed with breath, my expansive acres pulsing, sending humans here to mend an arch, others here, to pull a weed. I, Lea Monde, was the greatest organism of them all.

I am fallen now; humans pass into me, but most do not emerge from my other gates. Their broken voices merge with the passive moaning of the dust that swirls in my naked courtyards, joining the dead-alive in endless sorrow.

I am numb.

Without the racing blood of living humans and their beasts, my awareness has diminished. When the occasional traveler ventures through my rusty gates, I never notice, never care. I am waiting. The one with the key will come one day, and I will welcome him with weary gladness. Perhaps one day the name Lea Monde will once more mean a thriving place, with artists and bakers, and wine flowing from my casks into bottles to age.

Yet for now, there is only me, and the wind voices my silent laments.