In the quiet of the evening, when shadows unfurl,
Murmurs overflow through the stories untold.
Where twilight moves on the quiet breeze,
An embroidery of dreams murmurs among the trees.
Tribute to the evening, thy spiritualist cover,
Veiling mysteries in a heavenly cloud.
Powers of fate line up, their brilliant light,
Directing lost spirits through the most obscure evening.
The songbird sings her forlorn melody,
Reverberating through the quiet, peaceful and solid.
Her song winds through the 12 PM air,
An unpleasant bedtime song for those despondently.
The moon, a watchman, a silver circle,
Projecting gleam on hearts retain,
The delicate comfort of its serene pillars,
Stroking tired spirits in tranquil dreams.
Underneath the shroud of obscurity, sweethearts meet,
Their murmurs an ensemble, delicate and sweet.
Words traded like fragile ribbon,
Wrapping them in a delicate hug.
Murmurs of the evening, insider facts they share,
Trusted to the moon, the stars’ grave gaze.
Confounding stories murmured on the breeze,
Shielded constantly, always quiet.
Goodness, nighttime hours, strange and huge,
Divulging the excellence of the shadows cast.
Inside your hug, we track down comfort and effortlessness,
In the murmurs of the night’s captivated space.
In this way, let us give up to the night’s hug,
Embracing its sorcery, its delicate effortlessness.
Furthermore, in the murmurs of the night’s quiet call,
We’ll track down our asylum, our shelter, our everything.