They sat on the besmeared mats,
As dirt-stained as their own ragged clothes
Did I expect them to be diff'rent from the rest
Of citizens? I don't know, anyway -
Their eyes looked only slightly more alive,
A little bit more prying, otherwise
Still wan. They asked me if the world outside
Looked totally the same as their city,
Which I denied, although I had to say
That everywhere I'd been I'd seen turmoil -
Forsaken cities crumbling to the sands and glacial cinders,
And graveyards reuniting the horizons,
Nomadic martyrs, anguished ones and cripples,
Who wandered 'neath the steel-grey skies,
Only to find their short unsteady shelter
Within the worn out walls of various temples,
Where they were worshipping their woes and grievances...
But if I had a choice - to stay, or walk away -
I'd rather roam again through woods, and hills and valleys
In search for Hope, of which this place's devoid.
Still I can't find my way outside. 'And no one can',
The man who brought me here readily replied.

'The city's built so. That tremendous mechanism
Which we'd passed by, has many purposes, it is
The thing that literally makes the city move -
It rearranges the most outward quarters every night'.
'You say, the legend of the re-entwining streets...?'
'...Is not a myth. The outward blocks are just
A sham. Nobody lives there. And nobody ever leaves.

I've studied that Machina Urbi and I know
How to make it going into overdrive, by which
This whole city will be crumbling down'. 'But why?!'
I asked? 'Why don't you simply stop it, set us free?'

And then I've heard the grumble of discontent
From those who have assembled here. 'My friend,
My former guide said bitterly, 'You've seen
The foul atrocities those are committed here.

What you have never seen, I guess, is thousands swords,
Stored in their armouries and waiting to be used;
Black banners with the golden eight-point stars
Are garnered there to mount up like the flames,

And if this dreary horde of snarling ghouls
Will be unleashed unto the outer world, there'll be
No place to hide. Whoe'er comes close to them,
Will change forever, just too few can be immune
To their venom. And the rest will be converted,
In next to no time. So there must be no gate
To open. We shall make this all collapse:
The foul malady that they are will be buried!'

I saw the speaker's eyes already were ablaze
With zealotry... Is this the end for me as well?

I asked: 'What do you want from me at all'?
And they responded that I had confirmed
Their sacrifice would not be totally in vain,
And they are grateful. Still the road ends
For me right here, they cannot let me go
And give them all away.

And silently I watched
How they approached. But then a loud noise
Sparked panic and stampede, but out of nowhere
Armed faceless men invaded with short swords
And blackjacks...