I dreamed I found a tablet
buried beneath the ruins
of a city
that had not yet fallen.
Its letters were cut so deeply
that even time
had failed to erase them.
It did not speak
of kings.
It did not name nations.
It spoke only
of men.
When the measure of mercy is spent,
the earth
will begin returning
what mankind has sown.
Not as vengeance.
As harvest.
The fields shall yield emptiness.
The rivers shall remember thirst.
The sky shall close its hand,
and bread shall become
a rumor
passed between starving mouths.
The proud will trade diamonds
for a single crust,
and discover
too late—
that wealth
has never satisfied hunger.
The streets shall become
their own battlefield.
No banners.
No armies.
Only neighbor against neighbor,
brother against brother,
friend against memory.
Windows shall reflect
more fire
than sunlight.
Children shall learn
the language of fear
before they learn
the sound of peace.
The stones themselves
shall grow familiar
with blood.
The voices will cry,
"Surely tomorrow will heal us."
But tomorrow
will arrive carrying
the same sword.
For the wound
was never outside the walls.
It lived beneath the ribs
of mankind.
And every generation
called it
someone else's name.
I saw multitudes vanish.
Not stolen by mystery—
but consumed
by the machinery
they themselves
had built.
Hunger.
Violence.
Desperation.
One devouring the next
until death
required no invitation.
The living buried the dead
until there were too few living
to carry the shovels.
Silence inherited
the earth.
Then the heavens
did something
more terrible
than thunder.
They remained silent.
No interruption.
No argument.
No delay.
Only the dreadful patience
of justice
allowing every choice
to finish speaking.
And I understood...
Judgment does not always arrive
like lightning.
Sometimes
it simply removes
the hand
that was holding back
the flood.
Then the stone
revealed its final line.
I wished
my sleeping eyes
had never read it.
It said—
"Prophecy is not written
to imprison the future.
It is written
so that none may claim
they were never warned."
The letters began to bleed.
The stone became dust.
The wind carried it
through the streets
of cities
still standing.
People breathed it
without knowing.
Some laughed.
Some mocked.
Some looked upward
for only a moment—
then returned
to building lives
upon foundations
already trembling.
I awoke before dawn.
The room was still.
The birds still sang.
The world
appeared unchanged.
Yet the silence
felt heavier.
Not because I believed
the dream had shown me
an unchangeable tomorrow—
but because I knew
how often mankind
mistakes mercy
for permanence.
And somewhere,
beyond the edge
of every ordinary morning,
I could almost hear
the slow turning
of a key
inside a door
that had waited
since the beginning
of time.