In the twilight, where echoes weave their tapestry,
the shadowy lullabies murmur through the winds,
serenading the specters of forgotten selves.
Here lies the paradox, in the sing-song silence,
a harmony fractured, yet beautifully whole.
Listen close—it's the whisper of your dreams,
folded like origami cranes, resting on a moonlit stream.
Gaze into the orb, feel it pulse with echoes,
a heartbeat synchronized with thine own essence.
Each pulse a reminder, each glow an illusion
of the self beyond selves, lost in gentle reverie.
Follow the hymn of your eternal sighs,
the echoes of past selves reaching through,
like hands grasping shadows, or voices
reverberating in the hollow chambers of the heart.