In the dimmed echo, the tortured whispers of bound volumes wend their ways.
Ink runs like aged wine,
from the scripts etched upon midnight's skin.
Upon winds of time, a question is cast—
Who dared tread upon the graves inked
in shadowy lament? The path remains eternal, wounding the hearts of
dreamers.
Seek ye solace in lines erased by oblivion's breath,
Wanderer, take heed of the glimmering truth veiled beneath yonder layers of eternal dusk.