Beneath the hum of the forgotten echoes,
where starlight weaves threads of silver,
they gather – unseen but deeply known.
Echoes of the cosmic thump, calling from ages past.
Worn voices flicker like ancient fireflies,
sing silently of that dance, the salsa weave,
where every step is a rebirth, and each spin
a remnant of galaxies that spun together in
harmonious vibrato, a chorus unseen.
"Remember, oh gentle whisper," she sighs,
"when the comet's tail held our laughter,
and twinkling skin shone under pulsar moons?"
Lavish attendees, clad in nebula shrouds,
orchestrate the melancholic waltz of light.