In the clamor of absence, where voices dare not tread,
the echoes of whispered dreams lay silent, instead.
Carved into the grid of forgotten constellations,
a symphony lost in the dance of the stars.
Beneath the weight of unsung songs, they rest,
gentle murmurings of a world's quiet quest.
Each note a feather, adrift in a sea of dusk,
awaiting the breath of a dawn unmasked.
The grids hold tight to the lullabies untold,
woven threads of night, in silver and gold.
In the cradle of the wind, they softly reside,
silent keepers of secrets where shadows abide.
Here lies the grid's eternal lull,
where silence sings its syllabic pull.
Each empty square, a verse unspun,
each pause, a world undone.
In the cosmic void, a forgotten echo wails,
a murmur of galaxies, woven in trails.
The silence a canvas, the stars a brush,
painting the astronomy of an unheard hush.
The chant of stillness, a heavy sigh,
lingering in spaces where shadows lie.
The cacophony of unsung, a solemn jest,
in the tapestry of silence, they find their rest.