In a realm where the horizon holds its breath, lingering half in shadow and half in light,
the aurora's breath curls like smoke, like a story untold, scattered across the firmament.

Once, in the age of twilight, the whispers became words, a melody of colors
that sang the sky into oblivion, where silence became a canvas painted by echoes.

Did you hear it? The serenade of impossibilities,
the threadbare lullaby woven between realities?
Listen, closer now, for even sepulchers have hymns.