The recital of the strange has begun The last ray of sun still lit up, it is always quite a sight to watch the birds fly home. The stage is ready for those who want to sing, but where are they? The whisperers, The lovers? The saints? Tune into the chimes from the far away lands. The season of stories are over. The birth of a river has begun. The dust on your boots, where have you gone? You smell of the mountains, now the mountains smell like you. Where are they? The revolution of the silence.. where are they? The last of them listeners.. where are they? The last of them poets..