In the cradle of dusk, where silence swells,
A voice, like ripples over moonlit wells,
Speaks in riddles, woven with golden threads,
"What dreams linger in the lay of your beds?"
Beyond horizons, in starlit abysses,
A whisper returns, clothed in twilight kisses,
"Stars are but echoes of forgotten lore,
What truths remain at the edge of your door?"