Alas, let me tell you about the beauty of the tomb: the stained glass, all viole (n)t, enhancing the gloom. Dark flowers, all withered, fragile and old, yet, the ir perfume still lingers like a secret untold. Like a dream, or a memory that fl oats in this vault, waiting for the moment it shall be recalled by some visitor, maybe, who is seeking release from a strange kind of sadness, some unknown dise ase. Its symptoms are madness, caused by the music in his head, sung by an endle ss choir, called:
"the Voices of the Dead".
It's his longing for silence, for the absence of sound, that will lead him the h idden path below the ground. Where he shall discover, though terror and fear, be hind black iron doors .... something is sleeping here: a little dead baby, a you ng boy lies kept, as fragile and frightened, crippled and sad...
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