The dome on the hill stands forlorn and vigilant, yearning for the days in which its halls echoed with wisdom.
The stars beneath its reach-once brilliant and vivid-are but dulled husks of their former selves,
dimly flickering with nostalgia.
No soul has ventured through its long-locked gates, and its walls no longer resonate with life; no voices have since chanted through its canopy to the heavens.
Silently it weeps as clouds of dust run down from its thresholds,
but isolation and woe are not to be its fate:
graced is the dome by the sun’s warmth and company,
and shadows and voices of passers-by paint its walls and windows as they drink in its history and hidden wisdom-
learning more with each visit, and bringing the hallowed dome closer to renewed splendor.