As twilight embraces its inevitable surrender,
the luminary flickers, searching for purpose,
amid the charred whispers of yesterday's rebellion.
It speaks: "Illuminate, if only the shadows permit."
Among the market stalls of antiquated dreams,
the porcelain figures pretend to gaze,
outward to seas that never graced their shores,
while voices echo from dilapidated corridors,
narrating tales unwritten, yet lived in past lives.
Moonlight refracts through whispered jeers,
messages from millennia tattooed upon stone
shelter the ashes of forgotten revolutions,
entropic tales woven into the fabric of time,
sagacious beasts, slumbering beneath the roots,
breathing decay into the indigo night.