From the edges of twilight, where whispers crystallize into symphonies,
shadows waltz upon the crests of forgotten dreams,
mingling with echoes of what never was and what could yet be.
The clock ticks in reverse, unraveling hours spun of silver threads,
gentle hands spell words lost to winds in the lattice of night skies,
a galactic ballet upon the vast stage of darkness.
Listen, listen closely, for the symphonies are but
dances steeped in shadows, laden with the burden of memories,
encrypted whispers that tell stories without a single word spoken.
The dancers remain unseen, shrouded in the delicate veil of the known,
yet their presence is felt in the tremor of stars that sing quietly above,
serenading the slow mosaic of time's weaving hands.
Anchor to the rhythm of the unseen, the bond to the intangible,
grasp at the fleeting outline of the symphony, dance along its melody,
embrace the shadow's truth.