Underneath the howling sirens of a distant memory, the stars are notes on a staff, composing a silent opera
sung by the shadows of yesteryears.
Did she dream the symphony, or was it the symphony that arranged her dreams?
A kaleidoscope of fate intertwining and disentangling, a whisper too late grasped for future echoes,
singing a tune only the night knows.
Forgotten Paths
Silent Waltz
Morning's First Dew