In the twilight, where shadows speak,
Voiceless songs of forgotten peaks,
A realm of whispers finds its birth,
Distilled from ether, it weaves the mirth.
Gold glimmers dance in spectral spheres,
Brush of existence, it sears, it clears.
In the void, a prism bends,
Light from the realms where dusk descends.
Touch the veil, the palimpsest:
Land of the lost, of the soul's quest.
A delicate thread, they say, is spun,
Between the shadows and the sun.
Incandescent dreams drip like dew,
On the tongues of the bold, the faintly few.
Cycles of starlight, time and again,
Whispers the name of the silent pen.
Beyond the horizons, where silence pours,
Find the ancient forgotten doors: