Those people who tell a story, who live in the hills

Those people who tell stories, who do not like the rain on their skin

Those people who tell stories but stray a way from sunshine and never dance across the green fields

Those people who tell stories and never think of the consequences

Those people who tell stories of the forbidden land and the enchanted forest

Those people who tell stories of the days when ice fell from the sky and disappeared into the earth

Those people who tell stories about a thing of the ancient times called love

Those people who tell stories about the days when life and laughter filled the earth

Those people who tell stories about the drought to come as if they knew

Those people who tell stories, who have holes for eyes and bones for mouths

Those people who tell stories and their voices are made out of lost souls crying out

Those people who tell stories while sitting in great caves dimly lit by the shadows of the ones yet to come

Those people who tell stories woven from the wails of those who are gone forever

Those people who tell stories to travelers who will never leave

Those people who tell stories but never listen