The curtains drawn by unseen hands, Invisible scribes marking the sacred with their breath. Do these stanzas shiver on stolen winds? Or do they etch themselves in silence upon trembling veins?

Past the clocks that forget their own echoes, Lies a bridge wrapped in eternal twilight. Skit blasphemy, they shout—forgotten tongues in a dance of shadows. What is forbidden to blush before the stars?

Paint the night with whispers unmasked, Let the prison of sounds unravel among golden tears. Does the unspoken word bleed through lighting cracks? Or does it find solace in the depths of absent gardens?