S-shrouded these narcoleptic trees by some unnoticed gale, shed their leaves unto a tarred land which encircles the s-silence of all those who... would born dead for this Golgotha. Muted birds tired of repeating yesterdays errors, huddle nowhere in the recess: there it emerges a continental mist from the marsh that traces its way towards to cuddle the marblean feet of the mouthless hero's statue, whose only feat was shout at the moon an' sun under the eye of HORANGEL. Of Horangel... In tune with the cathodes of the Ëarth, the svelt-long night begins yetstill. And the still failing rain.
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