Once upon a time, the hammers planned to put down all the nails. Some in the name of blasphemy, the other honor. Bring on the laws and legislatures, said the hammers. Terror terror, shouted the nails from every nook and corner. Those centuries; the pounds, railways and universities; and then the 90s. Eclipse, eclipse! One after the other, the nails were fixed. ‘Victory’, the hammers chanted after every nail was planted. The strongly they thrashed the nail, the lesser time it took to entrench deeper. They did it until all four walls were filled. “We are Great!” said the eight hammers, laughing on the nails and their poor fate. However, the nails knew better – they silently prayed. The days turned into decades, and the room turned into a museum. Their struggle was long, and they had a song for every moment they stood strong.
Now the paintings abound on the wall, all carved with signs of summer, winter, spring, and fall. Each nail is a face of resilience, shining in all its metallic brilliance. The nails stand there narrating a story of their own, speaking from within the walls. The walls now reek of the tales of nails. Little do hammers know silence is itself a story, excavated by the historians, and then frozen into the pages, alleys of history and racks of libraries. The walls which once got empty, no painting remaining, each and every broken, had the nails intact. And this is not a story, it is a fact. Only after the crepuscule comes the crack of dawn; nobody has seen the crimson, scarlet, and cerise yawn. The hammers may have a loud sound, but it will never resound.
The nails, forever engraved; their voices, forever sound.
On repeat: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XMjetam0J4