Whispers through glassy voids,
The mirrors draw invisible lines,
Beneath the surface, echoes of a song,
Alien and known, it lingers on.
One asks, "What does the face recall?"
Another dreams of shadow's fall,
In fragments, words of past arise,
A phantasmagoria of truth in disguise.
Listen closely, the mirrors say,
Syllables dance in the twilight mist,
Conversations with the unmissed,
Voices of light, voices of shade,
Together they weave what time has frayed.
Do mirrors tell what they know,
When the room turns windows into doors?
Seek the reflection that steps across,
Through corridors made of smoke and gloss.
And here now, we stand,
Your hand meets phantoms like summer rain,
And in this moment, all is sane,
Yet, it is the whisper of the unknown,
That carves our names in the forgotten stone.