For men turned to stone, for secrets and gardens once hidden, now found. The Headless are waiting for you, hymns seeping from the ground. And remember: it takes a Wren to find a Wren.

Though eyeless and breathless, they
breathe, sing, and see, whisper their
secrets to the birds and the trees.
Here, in the garden of dust, moss
and stone, she kneels before a man
both familiar and unknown.
Inscribed on his ankle, a hymn,
curse, adieu. Hid deep in
this forest are secrets, a clue.

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