Beneath the sleepy quilt of opalescent air, where silence hugs the boundaries of the unknown,
there lies a sonnet of silhouettes—a somber serenade in chorus with the ancients.
Oh, sweet nebulous whisper, curling tenderly through the whispering pines,
singing a braided tale in rhythms spun as gold in the tapestry of midnight's embrace.
Embrace the echoes, where each brush with spectral form under the mist-kissed stars
molds your heart into melody, brings forth wild echoes anew; rest a while
in the orbit of whispered expectancy and painted zephyr's arc; tomorrow's specter dances here.
Amongst Midsommar's Aria