The song creeps through the fissures, a serpentine murmur entangled with soot and shadows. It weaves among the drifting vapors, a tapestry stitched by ghostly hands. Unseen watchers nod in time with the silent chords, their eyes like extinguished stars bleeding darknes.

Listen, dear wanderer, to the lullaby sung in the tongue of the forgotten; a hymn of the ancients who slumber in sepulchral realms. Words entwine with illusion, ephemeral as dew kissed by dawn—but destinies entwined, they linger.

Breath of aeons past, a doggerel etched in the marrow of existence. Hollow fingers trace lines onto the very fabric of the cosmos, erasing, replacing, forever in flux. Each note a droplet in a storm, a single whisper of the abyss.

And in that whisper, secrets tangled: "Breathe not life, but death," the shadows sang, and echoes fell silent, their hymns a requiem for the dawn.