The Fall of Babylon
Once upon a time, there stood a town like no other — Babylon. With golden towers that touched the clouds and streets paved with marble, Babylon was the pleasure of the world. Its putting gardens, flowing rivers, and mighty walls have been wonders past imagination. Traders got here from far away lands. Scholars, kings, and poets sang its glory. Babylon was powerful, proud — and fully blind to its downfall.
The human beings of Babylon believed they were untouchable. "No enemy can breach our walls!" they boasted. "The gods prefer us!" they cried. But their hearts had grown cold. The poor were forgotten in the shadow of their palaces. Justice had a price, truth was once silenced, and pride danced in every road corner like a king.
At the center of it all used to be King Belshar, a ruler soaked in luxury. He cared little for the cries of the susceptible or the warnings of the wise. The old prophet Eli, with grey beard and eyes full of sorrow, stood often earlier than the palace gates, calling out, "Repent, O Babylon! Your delight will be your ruin!" But he used to be mocked, laughed at, and chased away.
One night, a strange silence fell upon the city. The winds no longer whispered. The river stood still. That same night, the king held a feast for a thousand nobles. There was once wine, dancing, and laughter, as golden goblets clinked and songs filled the air. In his arrogance, King Belshar took the sacred cups stolen from a holy temple and toasted to his idols of gold and stone.
Suddenly, a hand seemed in the air, writing words on the palace wall — words that glowed with fire:
"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin."
Fear gripped the feast hall. The music stopped. The wine spilled. No one could examine the message — barring historic Eli, who used to be summoned at last.
With tears in his eyes, Eli read:
"Mene: Your days are numbered.
Tekel: You have been weighed and determined wanting.
Upharsin: Your kingdom will be divided and given away."
That very night, whilst Babylon slept in its pride, enemies from the east — the Medes and Persians — had located a way in. They diverted the super Euphrates River and walked thru the dry riverbed, entering the metropolis unnoticed. The mighty walls, once a image of strength, intended nothing. The guards were drunk. The gates had been open.
By dawn, Babylon used to be no more.
Its towers burned. Its gardens withered. The golden streets had been stained with ash. King Belshar lay useless in his hall, and the humans fled or have been taken captive. The once-great metropolis that claimed to be everlasting became a smash buried underneath the dust of time.
And so, Babylon was once destroyed — not with the aid of power of fingers alone, but by way of the weight of its pride, the blindness of its leaders, and the cries of the forgotten.
Even now, in the dry lands of the east, vacationers communicate of a cursed area the place wild beasts roam and the wind howls via broken stones. That region is Babylon — a reminder that no glory lasts invariably when built on vanity and injustice.