In the realm of dusk's embrace,
Souls plan a rendezvous in grace.
Yet, within twilight's tender light,
They just split over minutes so slight.
“In the seventh hush of dusk,” murmured the sun,
As the moon replied, “The ninth of night’s turning…”
Moon hung in the night sky like a silent guardian,
While the words of the Sun thundered through the heavens,
if, there be chosen one?
Maybe, their words entwine,
As time's nuances become a verse divine.
#thought
the Duskveil was the moment when all things held their breath—when day and night touched fingertips before slipping past one another. It is said that in this veil, the Sun and Moon were once bound by rhythm, speaking in silences known only to them.
They used to meet during the Seventh Hush and the Seventh Turning.
But something broke the rhythm. No one remembers what.
Now, the Sun always speaks in the Seventh Hush,
And the Moon always answers in the Ninth Turning—
Too late, too soon. Always almost. Never quite.
And in this eternal miss lies the ache of all longing:)
