Sztra-dun

Sometimes the remnants of eras call me, such an unsettling march heard in the entire plane...

-''Drop a mere scent of your enthropy, feed the anonymous guests''

And my inner voice, which is made of red, starts to sound across the frozen halls of time:

-Let them look under the sands, where the truth is salt and the dogma is the water that creeps it into oblivion.