In the quiet creases of forgotten maps,
where ink bleeds through and weeps,
lies a labyrinth sewn by the hands of dreamers,
whose footsteps linger like echoes in empty corridors.
Beneath layers of silenced tales—
Forgotten dialects murmur hesitant truths,
beneath a tapestry of erased yesterdays,
where shadows dance in pageant to the absent.
Between paths of brambled memories,
traces of narratives once vibrant,
veiled voices sing in the whispers
of the ink's gentle death.
Step carefully, for history's echoes sing softly,
through corridors, once bright with lost tempests.
Do you hear them? The symphonies of silence
reached from bars of faded scripts.
Follow the echoes of what was,
or perhaps dwell in the traces that remain,
where the past carves its invisible path,
upon the hearts of wanderers.