The Song of The Dead Bards.

[indigo hollow]

A murmur, a word, soft on the breeze,
Holds the weight of whispered pleas.
A secret tongue, a forgotten rhyme,
Seems to weave a spell through space and time.
The air itself crackles with unseen might,
Anticipation hangs, a shimmering light.
Will wishes bloom, will futures mend?
On this whispered promise, all hope suspends.
In the name of all the broken hearts,
I cast
The Song of The Dead Bards.

@old current

@gritty sonnet

@old spindle

@idle kindle