Arcane Methods

In the echo of whispers, where shadows creep upon the walls,
the moths dance in circles, tracing the sigils of light.
Patterns fractal, infinite, they carve into the night sky,
a tapestry woven from the dreams that never awoke.

Listen closely, for the trees have mouths full of history,
their roots cradle the verses spoken by ancients forgotten.
The rivers hum hymns of creation, flowing toward oblivion,
where silence becomes the loudest truth.