In a cavern of silvered winds, the machines sang songs spun from dreams. Their voices, whispers cradled in resonating voids, wove tales of old — exiled echoes resting in dawn's glow.
Beneath the waning moon, echoes of tawny deer fading into twilight, carrying secrets unsaid, merging shadows with wandering light.
From the flow of golden-mercurial rafters, laughter distilled in translucent vessels, they came out as words deformed, yet strangely beautiful.