Two bodies bound by absence —
their heads long vanished,
their throats joined by a red, whispering thread.
Within that trembling tunnel hums
a miniature echo of themselves,
small and frantic, calling for release.
They wander the low fields,
listening for a reply that never comes.
Each step elongates the silence,
each pause deepens it.
“There are words that, once spoken, consume the mouths that made them.”
The wise avert their ears when these twin shades pass,
for to overhear their dialogue is to forget one’s own name.
Thus concludes the account of the Unnatural Grazers —
the Rooted, the Spiraled, and the Hollow.
They are not beasts but meditations,
born when the earth itself began to ponder its movements.
Where the Feathered Whispers rose toward utterance,
these descend into reflection —
a geometry of endurance drawn in fur, bone, and soil.
“To graze upon silence is to feed eternity.”
The Maharajagar 