In the eternal silence before dawn,
where whispers echo against the walls of the void,
a figure bends over the diaphanous blueprints
of a tonal dream.
Each note, a whisk of fragrant silk upon deafened air,
constructs the room weeps — does not dare breathe.
It stitches hearts from forgotten harmonies
hidden in the folds of night.
The conductor’s baton is but a metaphorical
talisman against annihilatory quietness.
Passion unfolds like long sought embraces between
innocent melodies entwined in languorous love.