The Whispered Game
In the soft cradle of the morning mist,
where wishes turn to whispering vines,
children gather, hands clasped, eyes wide,
to speak a name not meant for tongues,
Lark's flight spirals high, above the leaves,
below, a darker tale weaves silently,
grasping at memories just out of reach,
echoes dancing alongside sprites of lore.
And when twilight wraps the sky
in shrouds of misleading light,
they speak of lighthouses without seas,
and giants with no shadows to cast.
Unveil the mystery, walk softly.
Shush! They can hear!