Upon the stroke of twilight’s dance, Winds gathered 'round in pristine trance, To weave in whispers cool island shanties, In secret cove, adorned with wild ibis.
What symphony you ask of me? A call of woven history's tale, For woven are the realms and realms, By cobweb threads spun frail, yet stalwart still.
...and seashell sleeps, held by palm in daylight bold, Cerulean womb, carries echoes from tombs unsold. Hearken now! O sojourner; other path, seek destiny therein!