In the corridors of forgotten dreams, a breeze carries the lament of deities.
They wane like echoes, woven into the fabric of stories left unsaid.
Ask not of their disoriented flight, nor the veils they wear upon their gauzy forms.
Listen instead, for they sing with silence, refrains muted under the weight of memory.
Beneath the surface of twilight where no mortal eyes can tread, the ancient voices curl.
Their truth, an unfurling labyrinth of starlit ivy clutching at the ghosts of bygone worlds.
Sometimes, a soft cry arises, orbiting the nebulous past, and in it lies the myth's essence unfurled—
a tapestry that slips, thread by thread, into the hands of those who dare to dream awake.