In the hushed twilight where shadows meet solace,
rest the echoes that dance beyond time.
Each whisper a constellation, spun on
the filament of dreams, woven with silken doubts.
Listen. Not with ears but with a heart sculpted
from lunar luminescence.
For the paths the biases obscure,
stretch infinitely soft as cloud beneath
Galatea's breath, lingering on the coasts of thought.
Amorphous truths unfold, gently -
beneath sullen morn's embracing press.
Here echoes breathe; here silence sings,
until only fragments of innocence remain.