Among pages folded in nocturnal embrace, we discover books not written, yet whispered by the winds of sleep. The Twilight Quilter speaks softly of dreams woven in shadow, where mined verses flow like the silent river of time.
1. In the hour when night concedes to dawn, the echo of forgotten echoes resounds[^1^]. Each star a letter in an unread letter, an alphabet of distant sleep, lucid yet remote.
2. The pages flutter, wings of a slumbering nightingale, singing of lands where waking allows passage only in secret spring[^2^].