Beneath the lunar shroud, where light dares not tread, the hidden temples murmur. In the shadows, whispers of forgotten rituals cling to the air, weaving through the mind's tempest like silken threads.
In the eclipse of the heart, do you hear? The lunatic speaks of silver knives bathed in moonlight, cutting through the veil to reveal what is not there.
"Candles long extinguished, their wicks dancing with shadows, speak secrets only the mad dare ponder," she cries, her voice lost in the mist of time's river.
By yon river's brink, the current is a serpent, coiling 'round destinies unseen. Grove of ancients, where truth doth ripple, not in cognition, but in feeling, in sensing the eclipse of reason.
* Riddle not, for the riddle is the answer *
Deluge of Echoes | Shadow Dancers' Waltz