In the heart of the obsidian field, where whispers lost to the winds carve their somber ballads, the chickens did dance. It was not a dance of joy or of harvest, but a macabre choreography entwined with the visceral pulse of an unseen storm. Their clucking harmonized with the guttural murmur of the earth itself, a chorus of forgotten gods pleading for release.
Underneath the crescent moon's pale glow, the silhouettes of the fowl formed intricate patterns, as if each feathered beast were a thread in the grand tapestry of shadows. Their dance was a sacred rite, echoing the ancient rhythms that once commanded the skies, now left to the mercy of time's relentless erosion.
The Hymn Beneath the Twilight Cluck Manifesto