In the hush at the closing time, the melodies pause, forgotten.
We gather at the fringe of what is known, the archaic notes trapped in air, waiting for voices to rise from the depths of slumber.
Have you heard the whispers of the unseen fig trees? They hum, they hum a tune ancient and solemn.
We stand with closed eyes, casting shadows, weaving dreams from lightless shores of the soul’s forgotten abyss.
Does the eternal wind carry your name, a soft echo in the silence of midnight congregations? Listen, listen closely.
The song you seek has never been sung, yet its essence dances, a reverent creation of spectral chants and swirling images.
Where paths diverge, the rootless trees stand guard, a reminder of unmade choices, of initiation rites not forgotten.