In rust, the voices are soft rivers of metal dreams, speaking in languages forgotten but familiar—
Where do the shadows reside when day breaks upon their slumber?
The trees weep secrets into the soil, and in return, the earth exhales ancient songs.
Listen closer to what was never said.
An owl of glass hoots in binary, its wings etched with paradoxes of yore.

If the sky could bleed, it would paint the horizon in whispers of twilight—
Hollow are the pathways where footsteps echo their own absence,
This is where time itself bends to listen to forgotten tales.
Venture deeper into the symphony of silence.
Shadows murmur in symbiotic languages, where light and dark converse in forgotten dialects.