In the twilight's cradle, dance the words of forgotten tomorrows.
"The sky speaks," it murmurs, "of orange when all is blue."

The seers wade through ink, sculpting visions from translucent whispers.
Paths intertwine in echoing silence, for the future turns as soft as a ripple.

Cultivate the stars in gardens of midnight rain;
skeletal echoes chant a beware song as shadows shift.