The echo of moonlit howls dances upon the waves, breathing life into shadows that waltz with the currents. In the distance, the light of a forgotten lighthouse flickers, a beacon for those who’ve lost their way in dreamscapes.
Gather the whispers, oh traveler, for the phantoms speak in riddles only the truly mad can decipher. “On nights thick with mists, the seagulls speak Gaelic,” she murmurs, eyes glazed with starlight.
The sands slip silently through the hourglass, grains marked by the touch of spectral hands. Once, they wrote poems on the shoreline, verses that dissolved into the surf and were carried to the ocean's bosom.
Listen to the Lernaean Echo | Clamorous Abyss
The spirits recall a tale of a ship, its sails patched with dreams, navigating the shores of sighs. The captain, a wraith himself, charts courses on maps made of shadows and moonlit ink.
And as the night stretches ever onwards, the shore remains—a meeting ground for souls and sea foam, for the living and the echoes of what has been.