Long before Babel pierced the sky, before the pyramids tore into Egypt's horizon, even before the first writing was etched into clay, humanity had gathered in a place so ancient that the earth itself nearly forgot it.
Göbekli Tepe
At the summit of Anatolia’s silent hill, colossal stone pillars stood like the petrified fingers of gods. They formed circles, surrounding a stone altar where animal blood once flowed, incense smoke spiraled upward, and the voices of men—their deepest voices—echoed into the emptiness of the night.
They came from far away. Hunters, gatherers, worshippers, shamans, seers, even those who could no longer distinguish themselves from the dreams of their ancestors. All summoned by the mystical whisper that pierced their dreams:
"Unite. Sing. Awaken the hidden."
In the center of the stone altar, old priests in animal-hide robes led the litany. Their voices were low, deep, like the rumble of a starving earth’s belly:
"We, children of the land you breathed life into,
Sing the song of the ancestors,
Uniting pulses into one breath,
Awakening You, the Hidden One."
As night deepened, more joined the song. Not in one language, but in one rhythm. An ancient harmony that transcended tongues. Their voices became vibrations that coursed through the ground, causing the stone pillars to tremble.
And reality began to crack.
Above them, stars spun in unfamiliar patterns. Constellations twisted. Orion bent, Scorpius writhed like a hungry serpent, Pleiades glittered into a giant eye watching them.
In the ground, something stirred.
Not beast. Not man. But an ancient will awakened from its slumber.
The eldest shaman, eyes rolled white, body convulsing, prophesied:
"Those united in song shall bend the laws of stone and sky.
The pillars shall become gates.
The hymn will open fissures even time fears to touch."
And the fissures began to yawn wide.
The air thickened like a fog of blood. Voices from other dimensions seeped into their chant:
"We hear. We see. We hunger."
Nameless creatures slipped through the cracks of reality. They were neither gods nor demons. They were something older than both concepts. Eyes swirling like vortices, tentacles of light dancing in spaces that should not exist.
But the people of Göbekli Tepe did not falter.
They danced in ecstasy, sang in madness. They invited.
Because they knew: reality is but a thin wall, easily pierced by enough collective will.
Their hymn grew wilder, faster, more ferocious. Drums of gazelle skin beat in unison, bones struck against stone, breath forged rhythms like an ancient machine reawakened.
The pillars pulsed.
Carvings on their surfaces—serpents, scorpions, vultures, mythical beasts—moved, as if their spirits were awakened.
The gaps between worlds widened. Hot winds carried scents unknown to earthly beings.
But at the peak of their climax, something happened.
Balance shattered.
A voice far from the sky—not God, not deity, not a ruling entity—but the Oldest Law of Reality itself roared:
"No. Enough."
In an instant, the earth began to swallow Göbekli Tepe. Pillars collapsed, altars buried, songs choked by dust and stone.
The first singers were buried alive in the tomb they dug for their dreams.
Buried. Sealed. Forgotten.
Yet the echoes of that hymn never truly vanished.
In the dreams of humans thousands of years later, the whispers still surface. In strange myths. In the urge to build towers, pyramids, temples, stone circles. In mankind’s obsession to pierce the boundaries of worlds.
Göbekli Tepe lies buried, but the litany sung there... still lingers beneath the skin of the world. Waiting. Stirring. Seeking the cracks.
