The Ivy Tower

The ivy tower stands within the blossoming meadow. Stone bricks forged its body, bearing the silent testament of time, an overgrowth of lush, persistent, climbing vines. A thousand years has unfurled the existence of the tower, its silhouette an indistinguishable blend of the landscape aside – a harmony with the wild world; the nature designed its grandeur. The upwards lies the emptiness of the firmament punctuated by a straight vertical of black; a terrestrial arm outstretched high into where lies beyond, its apex a pinnacle that not even the mightiest of eagles dares to surpass. The clouds themselves become mere adornments, a celestial garment draped casually about its soaring heights, all but ornamentation of the age and might of the old tower. The tower grows on its own.

How shall one admire the marvel from within the tower’s height? Far removed from the meadow’s embrace, the distant woods are well seen. The spray into the seer’s eye, by the tower’s height, a sweeping panorama, an illuminance of the every crevice of the great land. The elevated perspective lies the profound wisdom. Behold the verdant groves that thrive on rugged bones of mountain ridge, or the winding river at the farther end; landscapes the tower treads, each woven into the tapestry of its might.

And yet, in the audacious ascent of the tower, there lies a chain for its inhabitant. The very apex that breaches the heavens also shields the warm descending of the sunlight, denying the tower’s innards the gift of natural illumination. What remains is but the flicker of torches, a pallid yellow glow that magnifies the unease within the confine of the stones. And here within, the spiral of moss and moisture take the dominance, a damp signature of the tower’s enduring age. May the tower be reaching the skies, its interior lacks the matching adornment. The many paintings that grace the walls are but jesters in an attempt to distract the dwellers from that pervasive hollowness, an arena of that silent struggle, a paradox of beauty and desolation, a palace of splendor wrestling with the shadows of its own making.

What spectacle might the a gaze from the external world capture, one wonders? It may not reach the farthest extents of the woods, but the eye at the minutiae of the near will capture the dew-kissed blades of the meadow grass, the radiant blossoms of the vivid pedals that unfurls, the bustling of the insects that teem in their ceaseless dance. The journey would not be confined by the towering stone walls for the outsider, but freely wanders towards the glow of a target in the distance. And no telescope, however refined, could rival the earthy connection of the traveler's footfall, every step weaving a narrative in the vast canvas of the land; a walk would have been the most. The journey, it is argued, holds more allure than the destination. Yet, should the earth reveal a beauty to match the tower in its grandeur, does not the tower's ancient strength and pride seem to flounder? The paradox is profound, as the majestic structure, venerable with age and steeped in might, risks vanity when pitted against the sublime spectacle of nature's undulating tarp.

“What would I say to the grandest of towers? A spectacle constructed by the mightiest of bricks, yet the relentless tide of age has worn its vibrant spectacle to a hue of dimness, a yoke of oppression. When the lands on its flanks are aflame with the vibrancy of life, should I remain ensnared within this hollow sanctuary of darkness, lurking behind the ‘far vision?’ The tower, does it sing a discordant note amid the symphony of the land, or could it simply be an insightful dynamic, a counterpoint to the splendid harmony of this picturesque place? The tower imposes confinement, yet within it pulses a powerful resonance. The classical beauty of age stands in stark contrast to the blooming, teeming land that surrounds it. The land would not be complete without a slight taste of the odd; a strange comfort in this dream of the tower, a bittersweet delight in its rugged charm. The tower stands, draped in ivy, a stoic monument enduring within the heart of this fervent land, a testament to time and the imperishable spirit of beauty that it, in its silence, magnificently encapsulates. I’m glad that I dreamed of this tower.” Ah, the ivy tower stands within.