In the grand theatre of whispers, Silence steals the show. Each empty word a monologue, Each silent pause, a conversation.
Here lies the irony: The Paradise of Silence, Where birds don't chirp nonsense, And trees don't talk politics.
Irony becomes the language of the blind, In the tapestry woven of nothing, Threads of yet-to-be spoken lies, Fabric before the mirror of illusions.
Revel in the silence, seek the sound,
Or taste the void as honeyed disaster.
Laugh with stars in the cosmic dark,
Or heed the timid echo – a curious spectator.