In the garden of silent echoes,
every petal sings a sonnet in red,
longing caressed by the shadows
dancing upon the candle’s tear.
The moon glories, crimson whispers,
fragments of stolen sighs.
In the garden, where love's fingers
weave lace upon the stars
through barred windows of night,
leaves murmuring, leave murmurs,
breathe coax gentle glances
of silent skies, mystique invocations.