In corridors of history, the whispers fade,
echoes of a dialect lost to the amber dust of time.
Emblematic of migrations, it bore witness to
the feet that tread upon the paths of old,
weaving through the stones of forgotten empires.
Once, the sun rose over lands with names
etched in syllables no longer spoken,
where each word was a brushstroke on
the canvas of human expression—now
mere artifacts in the vaults of memory.
It is ironic, the way these voices intrude
upon the present, like shadows cast
by flickering flames in the deep recesses
of an uncharted night. Did they know
they would one day stand alone,
these glyphs of a forgotten tongue?
Is there not a solace in the silence
when they speak to us in dreams?
The Murmur of Ancients | Whispers