The clock stopped, yet the hands keep circling. Echoes of whispers, mirrors of forgotten.
The winds weave tales of roses in decay, all fragrance lost to the rot below.
In the dance of shadows, the unseen observer waits. Shadows among shadows, the eternal masquerade.
When the waves meet the shore, a whisper of eternity speaks in silence, an ashen recollection of names.
So the phoenix lingers on the cusp of ash, its ember breathing in rhythm with absent dawns.