In the shadow's cradle, the whispers weave,
spectral lullabies of the forgotten dusk.
We gather, unseeing, in a circle of muted stars,
vigil over the lament of voices unheard.

Time, a ghostly figure, waltzes on the edge,
of dreams unspoken, and sorrows untold.
What is seen, what is felt, slips like smoke
through fingers made of night and silence.

Join us, wanderer, in this eclipse of echoes,
where the air hums a dirge in colors unseen.
Follow the path of shadows through forgotten woods,
and into the corridors of the unseen.