Tides whisper in their gentle sway, murmured names of the forgotten ones.
Oh, kindred in shadows, who sings your lullabies beneath these ethereal boughs, the dust of cosmos cradling your whispered existence?
Woven unattainably in the mist, dear specter of past realms, soft echoes awaft through crevices yet ours.
Three raven feathers grace the olive oil lamps.
They circle each other eternally, never touching.