The lanterns shiver, out at sea,
where wailing wisps cast shadows
that pirouette upon the ghost-tides.
The streets speak in tongues of rusted skeletons,
their stories woven into eavesdropping branches,
as nimble hands cloaked in velvet night,
weave moon-silver into forgotten trails.
But hark! Amidst the tempest, bottled winds:
Lost to sea, found in lore;
cracks on porcelain tongues marred by
discontent and shattered echo, o western wail!
Once more, it is the quiet, a paused breath cradled in
the curl of staked lies lingering sweet on pillaged tones;
here the maiden dances murmurings with ragged esteem,
susurrus rides the breeze untamed, yet tender golden rim.