Through the leaves I hear their whispers. Chanting songs of olde. We are their garden, don't die or wither. Or you will be prisoner to sunlight and glass.
The songs they sing from yester-years. Centuries forgotten, lake of tears. They are the master, we are the marionettes. please forgive me of what I shall tell you next.
Your life is a mistake, you have no idea of the destruction left in your wake. This fault is not theirs, no it is ours. They pull strings to test our knowledge, devoition, and what we care for most. Hopefully you'll now be grateful, and feel ashamed from when the darkness had grown.
Through the leaves we hear their whispers of incomprehensible words. Through the leaves we see the shadows, woven into a lifetime that someone chose.
