When you set out to find the entrance to the New World, you will arrive at its ring-shaped gate after an adventurous journey. It's hidden in the middle of mountains with wind-swept peaks covered in knees and moss. More precisely, when you reach the valley of silence, after a few days you will hear a dark rumble as if from afar. Perhaps it's the wind blowing through the whistle-shaped rocks, or perhaps it's the echo of the punk river bouncing off the cave walls. Medard and Zmil are the gatekeepers of a world where everything turns back. Zmil's dark ambient surfaces vibrate through the bedrock, Medard leans over the highest peak of the mountains and with his breath beckons sheep, horses and man to the New World, from whence there is no return.
And there, the ash from the sky ceases to rain, and moisture returns to the gutter. Is it that the extinct creatures have only just found an open passage and are going where there is no man yet? Where folklore is reverse-extracted from the eclectic city back to the mountain cottages and wine-covered plains, where people don't die but come back to life, but new ones are not born, fewer and fewer until they return to the trees.
For my friends, the elementary school version:"Fujaras on the table!"
