( Ben Heine Art ) Go now. Take yourselves from here. Your skin is of no use. Never return to this, your wedding of agony. They were unaided in their howling cradle as beasts of misery called out to them while most solemn things crept by the gate, past the dreary eyed sentinels. And these foul things spoke to them, “You’ve suffered enough” they droned. “It is best that you die” they cried. “Your use is stale and you smell of vengeance”. They were wise to the game, the sport of shackled wretchedness. They would never come back, this they knew in their hearts. Go now. Take yourselves from here. Your skin is of no use. Never return to this, your wedding with agony. She approached them smiling, “Come with me now. Leave everything and move your feet.” “But we are chained to the floor” they begged. “You’ve no use for chains now. Come. Walk with me.” They followed her out, through the walls, past the guards who smiled knowingly, they floated beyond their smiles, beyond the gapin
(The Weaver's Song)