There, where the horizon is grey and we speak to walls of brick, the spirit of the dead wind stands. He whistles and whispers. It whispers your name. How does he know it?
Through the green shadow behind your eyes, they are born: the whispers of those who cry and the dead wind takes away. The whispers, they turn into cries and laments.
Behind the green shadow that always torments you with whispers, cries and laments of those who are taken away to the grey.