O, Troy! O, broken city of flame and fathers, how the wind still bends across your dust, and how the earth remembers the weight of your feet, the sound of your laughter lost in the tall grass, and the ache of your songs that once swelled like rivers beneath the moon. O, Troy! The blood of your sons still soaks the ground, the echoes of your women still rise in the night, their cries long gone but still carved into the silence of the stones.
They came for you, the dark-sailed ships from the far-off coasts, and the fire of their spears lit up the world with a hunger no man could bear. They came with the swords of their fathers, the thirst of their mothers, and they burned your houses, they tore your walls, they took your gold and your gods, and they left behind the silence of ash, the hollow breath of time.
And you, Troy—you gave them what you could: the iron bones of heroes, the shattered shields, the quiet glint of bronze beneath the ruin. You gave them the silence that waits beneath all war, the silence that lingers in the hearts of men long after the last sword is broken. You gave them the gift of memory, the dream that never dies, the terrible beauty of loss that grows like a shadow across the years.
And we who come after—we who walk these fields of stone and grass, we who hear the wind sigh through the ruins—we carry your silence with us, a burden and a blessing, a weight in the bones that sings of something we will never know. For we are the children of dust and time, born from the same hunger that swallowed you whole, and we will go on spinning our days in the turning light, our lives a fleeting spark in the endless wheel of the world.
O, Troy! O, silent gift of swords and fire—we stand in your shadow, and we remember.
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