But an echo torn from the soul do I hear...
A distorted figure of once pure ideals, incessantly
mocking the purpose of such a dignified declaration,
Indecently gathering a reiterating mass of clamorous bellows... for what purpose, but to falsely glorify what is forced into existence, only by those who dare to speak.

When the echo has not sounded, the truth has been forgotten. For without one the other does not endure... Indeed, Silence is retribution for those who fear the dark, if the echo can not be heard the voice can not proclaim. That which lights our way darkens it as well... Surely it is better to have light in
the dark than fear in the heart. So still, an echo torn from the soul I hear… A sense of hope does this howl of the cavern bring. Not with direct affirmation, but in the knowledge of the solidified existence of those who speak. In such a profound way does the maleficent uproar of the echo deliver solace to I, the once frightened listener.
An echo torn from the soul do I hear, and the comfort brought by the same do I feel.
The ideals once uttered in a form so simple are still in existence, yet the very means by which the truth is brought upon our ears is the same as which it was taken away... Listen to know not to hear, for it is not what is heard but what is spoken that can make the difference. Foul echoes ricochet across cavern walls, being twisted into the ways of the cave itself… To know the truth you must not only listen but also know with the absence of doubt, what is said is pure, what is heard is just an echo torn from the soul.