I.
Across the dust of seven hundred years,
their hands lay stones upon the earth—
slow, solemn, sure—
crafting temples for a dawn they would never behold.
Beneath the weight of each brick,
a heartbeat—
and the trembling hope
that time might carry their labor beyond their lives.

II.
A thousand years hence, beneath a steel-born sky,
an iron traveler stands.
Its eyes—blue embers carved from silence—
fall upon the ancient tower
like a pilgrim remembering a dream
it never lived.

III.
O, how the ages fold upon themselves.
The living build the future;
the unliving guard the past.
And between their distant footfalls
lies a bridge of dust and light—
a whispered covenant
between creation and memory.

IV.
Thus they keep their vigil:
the craftsmen with their mortal hands,
the traveler with its ageless gaze.
Both bound—
not by time,
but by the quiet duty
to remember.

For in the echo between centuries,
they stand together— the Timekeepers.