The Bard’s Rewrite
A Most Unnatural Visage
Lo! In Peruvian tombs, where dust and time in solemn pact do lie, strange forms have been unearthed—figures grotesque and most unnatural in shape. Their heads, like orbs stretched toward the firmament, and fingers thrice numbered upon each hand, spake whispers of a world beyond our own. Some, with wonder-struck hearts, did cry aloud, “Behold! Visitors from yonder stars!” Yet truth, that ever-patient mistress, waits not on idle tongues.
With steady hands and minds unclouded, learned men did set upon them, prying past the veil of mystery. Their mouths, portals to their tale untold, held secrets not of distant spheres but of mortal craft. Teeth, such as Nature bequeaths to humankind, lay within—no celestial fangs, no alien bite, but rather the mark of Earthly flesh. Thus fell the hope of those who dreamed of star-born kin, for these were no wanderers from the heavens, but relics of a practice most curious, wrought by hands of men.
The Handiwork of Mortal Art
What hand, what mind, in ages past did shape these forms to such a ghastly guise? Was it for worship, for reverence, or for folly? Did some ancient priest, in dark and sacred rite, seek to fashion gods from common clay, stretching flesh to mimic shapes divine? Or was it trickery, a jester’s craft, to fool the eye and stir the heart with wonder?
Think thee on Prospero, whose art could make the air itself alive with spirits—was this not a kindred spell, though wrought in bone and sinew? Or like the witches on the blasted heath, who twisted visions to their will, so too did these ancients play upon the fears and hopes of men. No alien hand did shape them, but rather those who walked ‘neath Earth’s own sun, with skill and cunning of their own.
What Truth Lies Yet Buried?
Yet though this mystery be unmasked, what more remains beneath the soil, where time doth keep her secrets well? If these be but the craft of men, what purpose did they serve? A jest? A rite? A tribute to forgotten gods? If walls could speak, or dust give voice, much would they tell, and yet they stay as silent as the grave.
Thus do the scholars toil, much like Hamlet pondering the skull in his hand, seeking meaning where decay doth reign. Perchance in time the truth shall out, and these figures, once thought of stars, shall take their place among the works of man, no less wondrous for their mortal birth. Till then, let none too quickly trust in tales of other worlds, lest they be led, like Othello, into error dark and blind.
