Follow. Breeze tumbled leaves rustle a name. Follow. Dried up years clank heavily against the iron gates. Always follow. Do as I say and not as I do and always follow. Another whispered word slithers silently by, skin cracked and dry from lack of use. When will it rain, grandmother? The old woman raises her unseeing eyes to the obsidian sky and cackles. The rocks flinch and the unspoken words hurry away. Too late, little girl, too late.

Dawn breaks like a thousand mirrors, but still no rain. The unused words lie weeping at her feet. She sits now, motionless among them. She used to know what they sounded like; words like love and I and happiness. But no one really spoke them anymore. they just nodded to one another, soundless passing of spirits.

Another day without rain.

Another song without words.