The Shepherd Waits Under the Blue Sky

It stands on the top of the mountain, like the crown left by the giant god, and like a monument frozen in time. The stone wall glowed with an iron-green light in the sunset, and every scratch was embedded with the whispers of wind and rain. The spire pierces the clouds and points directly to the sky, as if to seize the loneliness and high distance of the sky. Under the arch, the darkness is like the throat of a giant beast. How many horses' hooves and sighs have been swallowed? Above the battlements, the wind passed through the gun holes, whimpering ancient war songs. The window lattice is tightly closed, like the lowered eyes of a meditator, locking the endless corridors and secrets inside into deeper silence. Moss marks spread between the cracks in the stones, like the blue and gray coat of arms quietly embroidered by the years, silently telling the forgotten morning and dusk. As dusk fell, the last ray of sunset slipped over the spire, and the entire castle sank into a bronze-like dignity. It is silent, but with its rugged outline, it carves an indelible mark on the world - it is an epic written in stone, a dignity that cannot be weathered by time, and the most stubborn glance that the earth casts towards the sky. When the stars rise, they become the silhouette of the night, guarding the eternal dreams of mountains and rivers with their towering silence.