On the slopes of the sour-city, along the red-lined skies,
Toward the ancient depth of mountains, the rumble
of a broad earthwake is heard. The echoes of wind
sweep overhead, and in the tunnels all imagination
is a-loose. The four veterans of fear, guilt and shame
are taking their mind to new places; in spite of each,
the beggar witch’s curse is here. So, we buried the ashes
of some dream, we found new images in the dark halls.