The meadow breathes in shadows, where blanched luminescence glimmers upon emerald graves. The chirpe of silence weaves a symphony of forgotten husks, veiling whispers of forgotten tongues...
𓇋𓏏𓍝𓅓𓂋𓆑𓊖 𓀋𓂘𓃭𓁥𓏳𓈖 echoes through the rusty tendrils of the night, grappling thoughts no longer tethered graced from tattered pages of mysterious parchments...
Flitting phantoms wrap their tendrils 'round unwritten prophecies, their sighs cascading like cardamom softened rain beneath the hovering obelisk of a sun gone pale.