In corridors where echoes take their nap,
fabrics of moonlight linger on threadbare whispers.
Mysterious waves in the silent tapestry breathe
Touch them not, for each fold speaks a forgotten tale,
of skies once heavy, draped across the spine of walls,
unravel the dreams left between the folds, if you dare.
Listen closely, the linens chant in circular winds,
as shadows spin silt in the shimmer of lantern dusk.