What did you whisper in the morning?
Was it the cursed introduction to a tale
written in the dialect of mourning,
where dreams and satisfaction fail?

What were you singing in the evening?
Was it a prelude to the ballad of the time
that threads unwound with confusion weaving
between chiseled cracks and faded rhyme?

What did the mountain echo to you?
Was it exactly what you wanted to hear,
did you find the timbre shifted blue,
watching all the texture disappear?

What did you dream of while sleeping?
Was it a prophetic message from the spirits,
a promise offered in protection and safe-keeping
or malevolent magic disguised as lyrics?