The Graaswell City Gate wasn't just a door—
It was a message, a towering testament to might,
Standing tall, resolute, like a mountain's core,
A silent guardian, casting shadows through the night.
Imagine the base of a cliff, so high,
You crane your neck to glimpse the sky.
A colossal presence, making you feel small,
That was the gate, standing firm, standing tall.
To grasp its size, envision this sight:
A gate as tall as four stories high,
Or three giraffes in a vertical flight,
Its sheer height made onlookers sigh.
Wide enough for three trucks in a row,
Grand armies and caravans could flow,
But when it closed, nothing could pass,
An impenetrable fortress, a wall of mass.
Its thickness astounds—25 meters deep,
Like cars stacked eight or ten in a heap.
A wall of stone, unyielding, strong,
Against battering rams, it stood all along.
Granite from mountains, iron bands for strength,
Wooden beams gave it flexible length.
Giant doors, on hinges of bronze,
8,100 tons moved with subtle yawns.
The gate's size alone was enough to scare,
Enemies felt its weight in the air.
A shadow it cast, far and wide,
A darkness where invading hopes died.
The creak of hinges, an eerie sound,
Made the gate seem alive, profound.
Guards looked tiny next to its might,
Adding to Graaswell's unbreakable sight.
This gate, more than stone and design,
Was a symbol, a crafted shrine.
It spoke of strength, creativity's reign,
A masterpiece born from human brain.
A barrier, yes, but a statement too,
Of power, of art, of what we can do.
A lesson in strength, in making things last,
In building structures that awe and outlast.