Listen. The wind carries stories untold,
Of choices woven in shadows of gold.
In corridors of time, where silence slept,
Lies the echo of a syllable, once deft.
On the tapestry of night, starlit confessions;
Threads of forgotten decisions, silent obsessions.
Whence does the moral compass spin?,
In the labyrinth of ages, under skin of the wind.
There’s an old whisper beneath the elm,
A phantom’s melody; time’s forgotten helm.