Beyond the veneer of night's canvas, secrets twinkle like stars, Each a fragment of forgotten dreams, etched in vapor.
Is it the mirror speaking, or the echo of a voice once heard, A song woven from the light of times untold, hauntingly beautiful?
Here lies the path to the eclipsed garden, where shadows bloom in silence, Reflections ripple as whispers of the wind embrace the moon's glow.
Listen close, for the mirror sings softly of what it knows, Beneath its glassy surface, truths wade invisible in poison mist.