From lofty heights, Europe’s silent denizens gaze upon the fleeting masses.
Their expressions, fixed in stone, betray the horror of those long passed.
As though they knew, so long ago, that their seed would betray them. That glory, from their grasp, would be snatched.
That victory, once sure as the rising sun, would give way to mercy – and mercy to surrender.
That the magnificence that was Europe, would fade away. Its beauty turned to squalor.
The gargoyles of Europe have witnessed all this. Until this day, we could not understand.
We could not know their anguish, the contortion of their faces.
Now it is clear, they weep for their land.
The masses below have become like them, voiceless and frozen with fright.
The enemy has entered the gate. The dragon has slain the knight.
On the verge of victory, the knight took pity upon the dragon, whereupon it turned on the knight and slew him. His children cried and said: Father! How cruel is your pity, for you have sold your own seed to slavery and extinction.