On the cliffs of the mouth

 Time of truth is known. On the cliffs of the mouth. In the ears of the sea. Where the tumult of the water leaves no place. Dead words. No place. Hanging (on the walls) from the rusty nails of the useless tools in the hangar. By the dusty cobwebs. Trembling under the slightest vibration of silence. There the rusty tools that the automatism has evicted.