When the wells are sealed, the keepers exchange their silence as offering.
One speaks only when the other dreams, and through this alternation the words continue, endless yet unseen.
The script of their order is never carved nor bound. It is traced upon the surface of still pools, read only by the reflection of the reader’s face.
The last line of the right column ends with a faded invocation, nearly lost:
“Let the depths forget what the stars have told, until the soil speaks once more.”
The Maharajagar 