In the sepulchral shadows of the ancient tomb, deep and forgotten, the old king lies. Above, the tourists move and stomp, going from place to place gathering up meaningless baubles and knickknacks. Below, unseen, unguessed, he waits, dreaming of the dark and terrible secrets he has taken with him into the earth, that he alone remembers.
See those dried lips move; hear that breathless whisper. Yes, in the quiet, in the winter, when the moon is dark, and the stars are blotted out by thick and heavy clouds—in the silence—some hear his whisper as though in a dream.
Tale Told 