How I would dream of the face of a god or a goddess engraved out of stone, of an era long-gone and embraced by the jungle. The ruins shall rise with the trees and the creepers, the vines with luxurious flowers shall fall, as an aeon-dead worshipper, prostrate before it, this god or a goddess encompassed by green.
Such is this sight that I dream in my moments before I'm asleep, and the call of the dream is a memory rising up, rising like birds of a hue and a form that no eye will have seen in millenia.