In the ashen glow of dusk's breath, she whispers the stories
of forgotten paths, where ancient elves tread softly.
Amongst the flickering lights of broken screens,
their voices weave through twisted woods of dusk.
Like fading embers against eternal night,
the whispers know no bounds.
Like a hollow echo, their laughter hops stone to stone,
pirouetting past spectral pines.
Shadow dance in the blink of a dying star,
as moonlit silhouettes hum forgotten lullabies.
She stands, ethereal, in the periphery of light,
a silhouette of silver mist.
Hear her, beneath the canopy of haunted trees,
where the air is thick with whispers.