In a hollow, empty room On the wall of gloom Or by the window being warmed by the sun The echoes are there. Echoes and then voices, Voices that never stop. Outside the room, a vast world Resting upon the past. That past was built upon people The people built the past. The past is a tale The people are now it's books. Buried, hidden yet not forsaken. The people we have left behind The stories, we have taken.