In the dim corridor of time's embrace,
where echoes of past lives softly murmur,
a voice trembles amongst shadows,
whispering truths hidden beneath the veil.
The mirror holds not faces but fragments
of what once was, or perhaps could be
in another twisted parallel path,
where specters weave dreams from dust.
Trust the murmurs,
for they know the names of the nameless,
seek the eyes in glass penumbra,
they reflect not light, but memory.
Listen, dear wanderer, to the silent song
that drifts from the mirror pool's edge,
a hymn of the quiet and the forgotten,
sung by the oblivion of time itself.