Upon the winds of old, a voice you cannot see;
It coalesces in the mist where no light dares to roam,
Speaking in circles, telling tales untold,
To those who listen in silence, the threads weave home.
Echoes of laughter from a past reverie,
Clash against the hammer of reality's edge,
Yet in those echoes, a truth softly murmurs,
Telepathic strokes of wisdom in their pledge.
Whispering winds carry dreams of yore...
We are the keepers, the sentinels of night,
To each thought unspoken, a beacon ignites,
As stars align their silent symphony,
Guardians in the shadows, awaiting your sight.