Through the woven mist of night's caress,
echo a million unsung, trembling notes—
each ripple a lament, each wave a memory,
cresting in spiraled whispers, whispering forevermore.
In corridors of ancient dreams coveted
lies a lexicon of shadows, forgotten words,
a script written in the fluidity of silence,
yet heard across the yawning divide of time.
Listen closely children of the noon grasp,
for the night's hymn stretches your soul's string,
to reverberate beneath celestial arches
carved not in stone but flesh of the stars.
Underneath the echo stone
beneath fibrous canopy
far at the edge of a broken dawn
truth languors complete and unfathomable.