A dance of crimson in a melody spun
The taste of sweet abyss woven with haste
Do we sing under the storms, or are we whispers?
In the orchard of spectral marionettes,
A lone cherry suspended, pulsing
Dream melodies, do you remember the void?
Underneath, the soil breathes forgotten tunes,
While winds carry the hymn of residual moons
Oblivion—an orchard with roots in the abyss.
Grasp the fleeting chord, let it linger,
The song of cherries against a backdrop of silence
An echo, an echo... ever fading.