The raven sang to the moth, under silver skeins of night's veil,
where words danced in the twilight, brushing against truth's whisper.
Uncommon instruments played a melody of lost moons,
echoing myths spun by weavers of forgotten lore.*
In realms untouched by time, the moth's serenade is but a memory,
an echo through corridors vast and empty, yet filled with shadows of light.
Desire echoes and breaks upon the fragile shore of this strange dusk.
Beyond the canyon of unplumbed depths, the irony breathe in cycles,
like a sheaf of wheat resting in stardust's clasp, marvels in its own harvest†.
Each truth borne hidden under veils of brass and fleeting embers,
composes tales only the moon remembers in her sleepless watch.
The weaver's loom, ancient as mountains, spins fables into the very fabric
of night, investing in ironies seed-like bursts of obscure wisdom.
Reflect upon the ageless quill that scribes an unwarranted truth,
the graveyard where myths intermingle with the silence of fate.*
Such is the harmony of contradictions, a dance of perpetual becoming††.
There lies a sacred mystery among dandelion wisps,
where the silent tongues of history linger, waiting, watching in soft twilight.