In the cavernous workshop where shadows sleep,
rusty whispers linger, flitting between the cogs...
Each rotation a tale spun in silence;
a language of iron and dreamt-of thunder.
The puppets dance, their limbs mechanical grace,
within the twilight’s embrace, they find their voices...
murmurs of forgotten echoes, inked in the soul’s ledger.
Beneath the cold, stern gaze of moonlight, these machines
waltz to the rhythm of an ancient heart's shadow.