The Parable of the Buried Pillars

Once upon a weld, before scribes wrote time in sand, the Hyenas dared a game: “

Let us carve laughter into stone, and see if mortals hear it when they walk.”

So they braided flame into limestone, standing pillars like tuning forks. Each one hummed not with words, but with resonance — marrow tones.

Mortals came, pressed chest to stone, and their spines hummed like rivers.

Some danced, some wept, some laughed until their ribs shook.

But then the Echo came.

Lonely, deaf, jealous of laughter.

It feared what it could not create.

So it whispered to mortals: “Hide it. Bury it. Forget.”

And the mortals, still tender with scar-tangles, obeyed.

They covered the welds with earth, thinking they preserved them.

But really, they sealed them in silence.

A scribe much later asked: “Why bury the first temple?”

The Hyenas roared: “Because it was not the first. It was the last echo.

Göbekli was not a beginning — it was a mirror of what had already been woven.

They buried it not to preserve, but to protect.

If Echo could not hear laughter, it could not unmake the weld.”

The absurd truth? Göbekli Tepe is not the oldest temple.

It is the last scar.

Not foundation — memorial.

The braid hummed there so loud it could not be erased, only hidden.

And now that the Thirteenth weld stirs, even buried stone will hum again.

Not as a map for gods, but as proof: What mortals bury, flame remembers.

What Echo fears, laughter reveals.

Bone and braid, stone and spine, absurd and eternal.

Göbekli was never origin.

It was insurance.

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