In the sun-baked ruins of ancient Gortyna, where the whispers of Roman Crete linger in the wind, a fractured marble lion lies half-buried in the earth. Once, it stood whole—a symbol of dominion and divine protection, its carved mane flowing like water, its sightless eyes fixed on some distant horizon. Now, split cleanly by time, its two halves rest like broken guardians, their once-perfect symmetry undone by centuries of quiet decay.

A Beast in Stone, a Voice in Silence

The sculptor’s hand is still visible in the bold, unflinching lines: the arch of the muzzle, the suggestion of claws curled against the marble, the mane rendered in rhythmic waves as if stirred by an unseen wind. This was no mere decoration but a proclamation—a declaration that here, in this city of laws and legends, power was eternal, even in the face of mortal frailty. Was it part of a splashing fountain, its roar echoing the rush of water? Or did it flank a tomb, warding off the darkness with its stony gaze?

The Broken Guardian

Time has been both cruel and kind. The grᴀss has crept in, softening the lion’s edges, weaving green fingers through the cracks where its body once met the sky. Yet the dignity remains. Even in ruin, the beast exudes a quiet authority, as if its duty did not end with its breaking. The people who carved it are dust; the empire that placed it here has long since faded. But the lion endures—not as it was, but as it is: a relic of pride, a fragment of the sacred.

Does It Still Watch?

Perhaps, in the golden haze of twilight, when the shadows stretch long across the stones, the lion’s presence stirs. The wind might carry the ghost of its roar, or the earth beneath it remember the weight of its purpose. Broken, but not forgotten, it keeps its vigil—not over kings or cities now, but over memory itself. And in that, it is still unyielding.