You walk where once we walked, collecting objects with no knowledge of my ownership, and yet in my time I used and sometimes loved each one of them. Each little fork and button, now brushed by your enquiring hand, was felt or viewed with awe or fear or love according to its status and utility by those, like me, who sat among these stones, living out each passing day, caught up in daily urgencies and questions about our destiny.
My name is Agnetha, and I lived in the space in which you stand; sipped from that cup you hold so carefully and sat on the stone where you now rest your tools. You wonder how I lived my life. Look to yourself and you will find me there. I knew not what you know and knew much that is now buried among your new certainties, but the touch and breath of life remains unaltered. We also had our postures and a wish to be known, but only on our terms. Is that not always so?
Our Gods receive no worship now, supplanted by new deities. Our customs hidden under dust, now seem quite alien to you, but something in your enquiring mind, and the way you miss your family, reminds me of what we held dear. Preserved in this lover’s sanctuary, in which you walk so carefully, is our message to posterity.