Through the veil, soft murmurs breathe, unseen whispers trace the dusk.
Once, like morning dew, they settled on the edge, brittle mist of memory.
A path of silent stars glisten beneath soles of the wanderer.
Etched in time, fragments, echoes—
Voices of the ancients, silent yet screaming, whisper.
The fog gathers, a shroud.
Through it gleams the ghost of a song—
A lullaby sung by shadows forgotten in the weave of narrative.
Should you listen, dear traveler?
Would you walk that path where whispers call, oblivion seeming?