In a realm untold, where stars conspire, the embers sing sonatas of forgotten desires, ironies woven in gossamer threads. Listen close, for such whispers are seldom heard, a ballet of the edgeless dimly lit in shadow.
Humans, ever the candle keepers, fumbling through dim-lit verse, recite their doom in sonatas made of ash and ember, puzzled by dusks that never falter in their elegance.
So here we remain, architects of our irony, building phrases of obsolete glamour, shunning the known for the allure of the shadowed horizon.
Does the moon weep for us? Perhaps. Or maybe it dances, unaware of the sonatas we play in this ember-strewn night—a ballad of the stars unfallen, a serenade of our splendid solitude.