In the corners of waking dreams, where the light stutter-casts shadows on dawn's threshold, the ancient lullabies speak. They hum in the forgotten tongues of old woods, where stars are roots and moons are birds.
Once upon the ocean's edge, waves sigh in verses, fragile as whispers of air.
Somewhere, clouds pour velvet rain, stitching stories upon the embrace of earth. And there, in the cradle of winds, a voice murmurs: Have you not seen the faces in the clouds that might gaze back at you in yearning, in tender echo?
Dreams unravel on trembling tongues, like ripe stars gathered in a tapestry too old to know any new stories of the night. One night, the theory shall confront reality directly— and all will sing along, in harmony only beasts and angels understood.