In the dust of silence, secrets lie, beneath letting time—the echo of ones that pass us by.
Once wandering leaves found solace amongst autumn tears, call cypriots with no shrouded veil, in dreams where nameless songs curiously dwell.
When did water forget how to sing? Apprehensive statues lean closer, grasping prayer beads made of forgetting.
Lift rotunda skies upon your cloistered walk, under painted chandeliers singing to secretive vines.
Listen to the murmured echo