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Time and neglect have taken a toll, but it's only stood here for…

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Time and neglect have taken a toll, but it's only stood here for about a half-century.

The opposing kingdoms of animal, mineral, and vegetable will always contest each other. Their clashing provides the fertile bed from which life springs.

THE PROLETARIAT HOLDS THE LINE AGAINST FASCISTIC INCURSION.

A man, white-knuckled, spits on the stone yet to be engulfed by the plants. 'Traitor', he says afterwards, curling his lip in contempt.

SOME DEAD REACTIONARY, WHO CARES.

The intelligence has self-redacted.

Pulse within the rock. Old power.

Dirt under your fingernails.

His nails are white with the force he uses to grip the rifle. His gaze is fixed on the dark line of grit beneath them. Brown or red? Dirt or blood?

His fellow patriots were killed in the street, or by sniper's bullets. A few of their bodies are still in the compound behind him.

The rebel hero lies on the ground, haloed in red, a smile on his face. He knows his sacrifice will not be in vain -- he was able to inspire people to follow him in life, and so too in death, his voice will carry.

NOT IF THE REVOLUTION WAS RETROGRADE! FORMAL DISQUALIFICATION ON GROUNDS OF IDEOLOGICAL INCOMPATABILITY!

But across an ocean, the moment contorted into legend.

A voice from the dirt. Bullets in stucco behind him. Ears ringing, throat tight with panic. He shifts in the muck, clutching his gun, and whispers a prayer to an unnamed star: Not here. Not like this.

A perfume of pollen, stale piss, and dead plant matter lingers.

Time and neglect have taken a toll, but it's only stood here for… - ZERO PARADES Checks