In epochs hushed beneath the velvet mantle of forgotten time,
Lies an ode sculpted from stardust and reverence.
Its song, a whisper, tender yet assertive,
Krept through eons to nestle in our mortal chests,
Humanity's clandestine symphony dreamt awake.
To hear, you must not listen, yet hear,
For it dances in the flicker of solstice dawn;
The echoes of celestial footsteps,
As unseen sandals tread upon the precipice of fate.
Mortal scribe, quill aglow with divine ink,
Scribes they do, these spectres of antiquity,
Upon the leaves of time, messages etched,
By hands, long fossilized in the clay of dusk.