In the quiet folding of twilight,
where whispers trace the outline of dusk,
lies a garden untamed by memory.
There, beneath the tangled thoughts,
grow flowers of static lullabies,
their petals singing in colors unseen.
The moon, a silent shepherd, guides the shadows,
through paths woven with dreams,
weaving a tapestry where silence echoes.
If you listen close, the fabric of night threads stories,
in the murmurs of the wind's gentle caress,
stories like secret songs sung from the edge of sleep.
And in the hush, a circle forms,
around the solace found among hidden blooms,
where the garden breathes—alive, yet tranquil.