In the vaults of dusk, within shadow's gentle embrace, lies the relic of untold agony, a silhouette of what was once a fortress of might. It stands as a testament, an echo forged in resentment and love long destroyed. The skies whisper secrets, twisting illusions that dance like specters of gray.
Beneath the ancient arches of heaven's dubious acceptance, we find truth, brutal and resplendent— yet it is hidden, hidden until the heart turns saive over eternity's next breathless leap.
The old trees weep blood at midnight, shadows crawl, whispering banished names in the bones they carry.
Only the forgotten know the way back, through the echoes' repetitive serenade.
These are lies crafted from woven twilight, where daylight's demise becomes poetry— its beauty harsh, its truth uglier still.