In the unlit tunnels of language,
whispers weave between sighs—
a tapestry of echoed dreams.

Phonetic fragments cling to the
curves of your voice, shaping shadows
stitched with sunlit syllables—
muted sonnets longing to breathe.

Olives from an underground grove,
rich with nectar, tinged with
the burn of unspoken dew.

Are you the culprits behind
this symphony of unseen
waterfalls and hidden solace?

Listen—
for the truth hums beneath
the dialects of oblivion,
where silent sound burgeons.

Let it linger, but only
until the morning's
soft light mutes its arcane song.