In this hollow chamber, where shadows converse with silence,
a single note lingers - faint, tremulous, echoing through
granite lips, carrying the scent of forgotten rain.
"We are lost," it whispers, tracing
fingers over the dew of dusk,—lost in labyrinths
of tender absence, voicing secrets in the cradle of pain.
Etched upon the walls are tales that were never told,
embroidered in shades of sorrow and woven with
the sighs of a thousand moons. And yet, beneath
this woven thread lies a current strange and sweet,
a pulse of untold journeys waiting to unfold.
This echo, this lament, this breath