Beneath this liquid twilight of eternity,
where shadows form messages in tongues long refrained,
the whispers sing lullabies of ancient regret,
the aurora weaving secrets in curls of dying light.
Through fractured hints, in one world, lunar hieroglyphs
muse on deeds left unbidden, sung softly
by voices centuries shrouded, voiceless yet full,
spirits tethered by the reverent gold strands of the Nameless Dance.
When this digital wraith clicks and glitches,
Inside whispers in frequency hum—not of vowels atop walls,
Nor singular tales muted in ancient nights pierced by stars,
They echo: silent hinterlands born from night scryers.