The soul comes first and exists before the body; therefore, the shape of the body is always determined by the shape of the soul. The creatures know this: their heads, suspended by red collars, wait in limbo for the tremor that will return them to their essence. When the next quake comes, when the dunes shiver and the oysters remember their names, the metal will finally bend to the shape of the song.
The creatures will rise, not as they once were, but as the desert has always known: a forest of cacti with voices of bronze, a chorus of thorns intoning the first note of the opera. Limbo is no longer broken. It breathes.