In the echo of a whisper
trembles a leaf,
bound not by earth nor time,
swaying in a circadian serenade.
The quill writes, though there is no writer;
misplace your letters,
and they scatter into a victor's tapestry.
Are you destined to decipher the unspeakable?
The veil lifts. Dancer, static on edge,
what pirouette hast thou practiced?
Mirrors echo with mismatched shadows.