In the silent vortex where words cease to dance,
Shadows of righteousness linger, tremble, and trance.
A melody woven of conscience and still,
Echoes silently in the absence of will.
Listen, the sound of silence speaks tales untold,
Of whispers lost in corridors, stained like gold.
An ethical compass spins wildly, unfazed,
In the cosmos of silence, truth remains glazed.
The dawn carries hues of decisions unmade,
Where darkness holds canvases, vivid yet fayed.
Each stroke a reflection, a blade, a mend,
In the soft hush of twilight, where echoes ascend.