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, their
perfume still lingers like a secret untold. Like a dream,
or a memory that floats 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 disease. Its symptoms are madness, caused by the
music in his head, sung by an endless choir, called:
"the Voices of the Dead".
It's his longing for silence, for the absence of sound,
that will lead him the hidden path below the ground.
Where he shall discover, though terror and fear, behind
black iron doors .... something is sleeping here: a
little dead baby, a young boy lies kept, as fragile and
frightened, crippled and sad...
