Биография

What was that sound? The stone and skulls bore down on him. His torch cast feeble light in this cold catacomb. Our knight stirred not, lest the slink of his chainmail disrupt the melody that echoed in the tunnel. It sounded like moonlight. It sounded like blood. Then silence. Doth a demon stalk these halls? His mortal soul shuddered. But th’re ‘twas again, the music. And he knew no devil could fashion such a refrain. In trepidation, he followed the hymn. Angels they must be, confined to a sepulchral chamber where their choir might one day reach on high. Rounding a corner, he laid eyes ‘pon a gleaming crypt, aquiver with the divine sound. Drawn through the ossified cell, our knight discovered an intoxicating scene–a group of peasants writhing in pulses of white light. ‘Long the crumbling mure laid the impression of their exhumed bodies. They paid him no notice as they shaped their song. Then, as a blaring chord struck, one turned to him. With a dagger stare, the peasant proclaimed, “We are Cutouts. Cut out of the stone. Cut out of the bone.” And their sound rose so loud our knight succumbed to the clam’r. In the hallowed blankness, he felt frigid fingers removing his armor. The peasants left him naked, ascending whence he came. Fearing not death, he lay waiting to perish. All life’s riddles had been resolved. Save one… what were those metal contraptions they held? Indeed, the meek have inherited the earth. And they brought guitars. - Words by Elizabeth Kroner.