Over the Gray Hills lies a small town. Up above gather stormy clouds.
The woods have fallen in, fallen to the ground.
Awake is only He who knows, wandering about. That small town is full of people, people in deep slumber. Whispering in their ears, He is whispering the truth. No one is able to hear the mocking bird.
The words have fallen in, fallen to the ground.
The Masters of Sleep are coming closer, are coming for He who wonders. With nightgowns and sleeping potions. He is taken far – where truth sleeps and echoes. And nothing is – but a sound.
The whispers have fallen in, fallen to the ground.