In the whispering echoes, the soul paints on the invisible canvas,

The brushes dipped in twilight's honey,

Fixed stars tremble, casting murmurs,

under the cloaks of drowsing skies.

Tear the parchment where visions bleed,

scribbling designs onto milky fibers.

Draw not the heart's song, but its silence,

For clarity dwells within trembling seams.

And so a mountain springs from dew,

each drop a mosaic of forgotten limbs,

As shadows weave through reed gardens,

the buried dawn laughs unseen yet deeply.