In the hollow recesses of the south, shadows linger upon the cobbled paths of neglected towns. Murmurs rise like fog, weaving tales of the unsaid, leaving a pallor of absence where words once thrived. The moon spills silver over broken arches and shattered mirrors, igniting whispers of forgotten lore.
Through the skeletal grasp of time, an echo calls. It beckons with a voice woven from crimson threads. Yet the meaning hides behind veils of dusk, in spaces unfilled and shadows unbroken. To grasp the rhyme, one must align unseen motives with the stars.
Alongside the weary banks of the whispered river, spectres of yore dance in the flickering lantern light, casting shadows upon echoes lost in time. They hold keys to gates unseen, yet their voices dwindle in the mist, leaving questions unanswered.