What the wind murmurs... Isman's dream never awoke beyond the shade's sighs.

Upon steps forgotten,
the leaves held traditions of spinning eddies,
tales never learned
but cradled gently
by boughs overburdened with sentiment.

Wisp-light tales sung by their mothers,
appear as spoken rain, flowing wish-drops₁
sewn when worlds slept too long,
held only half open in tender whispers.