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The burning sands scorch the barren and unforgiving landscape.
No animal seems to exist. But they’re there inconspicuous to their predators.
In the distance, a gecko zigzags through the vast inferno, arching its slender body to avoid the burning sands. As it appears and disappears in the many ripples of the sands, it leaves in its wake a remnant of itself, in order to satisfy the hunger of a lounging chameleon.
The sun is angry! It bares its stare on the gigantic sand dunes that tower in the distance.
The dung-beetle searches for a ball to roll. The scorpions extend their pincers at the wind and elevate their stingers at the unseen forces that move through the desert sands.
The pit-viper aims its pitch-fork at the slightest motion, in search of a rat. But the rat is in hiding, motionless behind a rock. The pit-viper can see the reddish silhouette. It can see the heart pumping and prepares to immobilize its wary prey. In the distance, the shimmering horizon fuses with the cloudless skies. There will be no rain tonight. The spirits that wander the desert will not be quenched.
Beyond the sand-dunes, man’s hopes are lost for ever, lost in a blanket of yellow ochre.
In their greed, Man has pillaged and ransacked the very essence of knowledge and integrity. Man has desecrated and violated the oath of the anonymous deities who’s domain was an still is the very arid plains that now inter them.
Far in the distance, beyond the rolling oceans of sand, stand three mighty sentinels, the pyramids of Gyza. One is clearly bigger than the others. Their near-perfect symmetry has withstood the testament of time and weather. They point skyward, and are the carbon-copy of a constellation within our solar system, in which their creators reside in total anonymity. At the base of the main pyramid at Gyza, the tailless gecko manages to elude its tormentor and finds a break in the limestone. The coolness of the air brings much needed relief and the gecko slows its pace.
There are men here, wearing funny hats and brushes in their hands. The miniscule gecko slips past their unsuspecting feet, darting out of the site of the busy men. The men are wearing khaki shorts. Small hammers and picks dangle from their belts. In their faces, the excitement of discovery is evident. The pits they have dug are long and square. At the bottom of their newly-dug pits, the littered bones of the once undeterred laborers of the desert decay. The men study and catalogue their find.
The gecko slithers thru another crack and jumps into the forbidden grounds. At the bottom of the abyss, where the darkness reins, the little gecko grapples to upright himself.
The kings of the valleys and their priced possessions have rested here for more than four thousand years. The pharaohs are resting and do not wish to be disturbed. Covered in pure gold, the headdress of the king is well out of site.
The gecko labors until it reaches the sarcophagus and squeezes his small body into the small opening at the bottom of the tomb. The gecko has found peace at last and lays down for a long rest, making his resting place the curvature of the lips of the dormant Pharaoh, whose half smile has not been witnessed since four millennia. Encrypted at the top of the tomb, in a language lost with the kings themselves, a warning to those who dare enter the king’s chambers: “Death to those who sacrilege this tomb,” and with this, the gecko grew still, never to see the light of day.
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