There is a terrible fear which clings to their minds,
that whispered possibility, “Am I wrong?”
and that’s why they shout—to deafen their ears—
lest they might learn that they are not God.
The more occluded their fear, the more terrible—
the forgotten nightmare’s worse than the one remembered—
Forgetting why they scream, they don’t know how to stop.
Their screams eat up silence, their shouts devour song.
But the singers keep singing; the dreamers dream on and on.
For the song and the dream will outlast the noise.
Tale Told 