In the periphery of the known world, where dreams tangle with the edges of infinity, lie the drifting pages. Stories told by the nocturnal phantoms, woven into the fabric of night. The whispering ink tells tales of faded realms, where shadows speak in tongues forgotten by light.
A parchment crumbles in the absence of moon's embrace,
Its glyphs lined in the sorrow of the stars hammering upon ancient skies.
Hearken not the blushing dawn,
For it knows naught of the unkindled flame swaying in mellow sea-breezes.