Listen: the feathers fall, like fate's whispered echoes, upon the stone, and ponder the folly of the wind.
The lunatic's voice clings to the air, a miasmal weave in twilight's gloom, "I heard it... the dance of shadows, veiled in slumber."
Chimerical urges surge, "the raven's call foretold it,” he murmurs, “but only the echoes remain, linger with the tomes of dust."