π π π
The stones cry out with tales not meant for the ears of the living.
Their tongues etched in scars upon ancient skins,
urging us to remember the echo of forgotten screams.
π· π΄ π
Within these walls, the ugliest truths rest unburied,
wrapped in linen and oozing with the scent of stale eternity.
Here, the eyes weep not for the world they lost, but for the worlds they never knew.
π΄πΏπ
The inscriptions tell of an ugliness that thrives
beyond the reach of mortal beautyβa blight
that nestles deep within the marrow of existence.
π π§ π
Cursed are the hands that carve these symbols,
blessed are the eyes that cannot see them.
Yet, here they are, screaming silently in the twilight of forgotten shrines.