Mausoleum

The dark canopy lay thick upon the forest. The sycamore and the beech, together with the birch and the oak, all mingled in a euphony of colorful whispers, dancing on the brisk autumn wind of an otherwise calm evening. It was that rare time of year when, having not lost all their leaves, nor having lost all remaining traces of greenery, the trees and shrubs alike stood testimony to the summer past as, gently, winter’s grasp took hold of the land. The muffled chorus of a distant spring, trickling down a polished granite slope, sounded it’s glorious percussion, while the melancholy plea of the nightingale proclaimed the coming dusk. All else was silent.
The woodland was nestled in a rich valley crevice between several great, rounded mountains: rippling heights of lush greenery, shadowed only by their own towering summits---the silent witnesses of this fertile garden. The scars of humanity’s past avarice scarcely remained, trespassing on but a few rocky outcroppings. Great, crumbling ramparts and scattered stone walls, the foundations of towers and chapels, as well as great arches, protruded from the trees, littering these open wounds: but little else remained. The Earth, in all her mystery, was healing herself. Creeping vines, mosses, and lichen were the only remaining inhabitants of those once-glorious ruins. Decay was the only vestige of mankind, a monument to life's impermanence.
Softly, as the night encroached, a low fog arose from the moist soil, like the wispy clouds that clawed at the mountain summits. Dew drops shone silver in the light of the moon. A large thicket of wild roses, blackened by the moonlight, flourished along a steep embankment, artificially planted long ago and a misfit among the ferns and undergrowth. The tangled thorns hid the remains of a stairway passage that wound it’s way up the hill. Leaves rustled amongst the unkempt thorns: a tribute to the lost souls that once tread this path. Beyond those steps, beyond those thorns, there was no sound; the world itself grew quiet, as if all nature gave reverence to that place. The silence was not so much heard as felt, and tranquility permeated the space. In the very breadth of the surrounding trees there was nothing but solemnity.
A sweet fragrance hung about in the air; not roses, but an unearthly smell; the smell of Death. Not the putrid scent of decomposition, but the smell of earth laden with Death. Beneath the crawling foliage, decrepit tombstones, half-buried, revealed the hidden truth. The beautiful, deep-carven arches and quatrefoil, inlaid with lichen, were reminiscent of a prosperous age, almost untouched by time; the names and dates of those buried, however, had been erased, as if the memorials in themselves had rendered some offense to time.
Once, the cemetery had been surrounded by stone walls, but age had rattled those walls, and they had fallen into disarray and slumped into piles of rubble along the hillside. Gently sloping towards a small stream, the hill gave way to a small meadow, adorned in standing tombstones. Two large buildings stood, cutting into the foot of the hillside. Perhaps the thickening silence had preserved them through time. The great white marble was bathed in the rapture of the moonlight’s glow, as carven archways reflected the glory of the heavens above, reaching down to the earth below as if Heaven itself was searching for some meaning for it’s own existence. The arctic visage of the pristine monolith recalled those wondrous accounts of northern lands, as the exotic curves told of the many journeys to the Orient.
The smaller of the two, a circular pillar in the forest of tombs, was domed with a lotus-like pinnacle, aspiring to the heights of the mountains---an oratory in the sight of ancient gods. Guarding the entrance, ever vigilant, two braziers stood, long cold, awaiting the sacred flame meant to guide lost  souls to their eternal rest. The cold stone drew in all that surrounded it, reflecting only the purest white light, a frigid light which whispered with silent voices, soothed by the sweetness of the air. Gentle, delicate voices; echoes of memories long past. Oh, to touch those memories---to hold them near, in embrace. But no ears could hear those voices. Those which could had long since disappeared from this land. Only the unseen eyes of the mountains beheld the loneliness in the air.