Down below the cellars in the bounds of an iron cage, there grows a luscious garden on a lively, upward escapade; And ever blooming petal, every iris, ever rose, is comfort for the prisoner, like the dirt beneath his toes. Up above the cellars in the bounds of the kingdom’s garden, there stands a keyless cage locked, as it has always been. And all the tangible flowers beyond, every iris, ever rose, says that the only thing that’s real is the dirt between their toes.