Whispers come anew, bathed in nightly mist,
crescent moon's tears laughing softly at wicks.
Can you hear it?
The tongue of twinkling secrets, darting.
Starlight stories swirl in dusty potshandlers,
spooned—scattered grains of molten enchantment.
But oh! The echoing woods twist tired tales strange.
Don't wander far, little voice, don't stray home.