The Tongue of Stone (5.5 version)

[Intro] the geometry was flawless. every angle calculated to pierce the cloud. but the air at five thousand cubits... it tastes different. it tastes like a fracture. [Part 1] my hands are covered in bitumen and sacred dust, we built the ramp to escape the blinding crust. the sky is a ceiling we meant to shatter, but the bricks are starting to bleed and scatter. i look down—the valley of shinar is just a stain of ink, i look up—and the blueprint is starting to shrink. [Part 2] the foreman brought the numbers for the western arch, but his throat was dry, a frozen march. "strop... chaos... pusty grób." i screamed for the line, i screamed for the plumb-bob, i felt the panic, the mechanical throb. three thousand languages crashing in the scaffolding, the logic of the tower is quickly unraveling. [Bridge] do we build a monument or dig a grave? is it the sky above or just a concrete cave? the syntax is breaking. the mortar won't hold the verbs we are making. [Part 3] the architecture of my mind is folding inward, the shadow of the monument is casting backward! we reached the height where words become concrete dust, the iron is bleeding, the language is rust! it doesn't speak to us... it just swallows the echo! [Outro] silence. the ultimate translation. the tower stands. but the blueprint... is gone.