Oh, my brethren, think on that open valley, think on it with me ... a valley, do I picture it, by the shaft of a shut-down mine, where, under the dark mountain side, the slag heaps lift their heads to the sky, a valley such as those valleys in which you yourselves abide ... Journey with me, my brethren, into that open valley, journey with me ... Know you not those same dry bones? ... You know them well ... Bones without flesh and sinew, bones without skin and breath ... They are our bones, my brethren, the bones of you and of me, bones that await the noise and the mighty shaking, the gift of the four winds of which the prophet of old did tell ... Must we not come together, my brethren, every one of us, as did the bones of that ancient valley, quickened with breath, bone to bone, sinew to sinew, skin to skin ... Unless I speak falsely, an exceeding great army.
Anthony Powell, The Valley of Bones
Contributed by Keith Marshall