WHISPERS OF THE UNSEEN

Sir,

The night speaks in riddles, shadows whisper my name.
Visions etched in twilight, never quite the same.

A road bends before me, its silence too loud.
Then fate takes its toll, draped in a mourning shroud.

They say, when the owl hoots, a soul is stirred.
And I have heard echoes in dreams deferred.

Like a river foretelling the flood in its sleep.
I wade through the currents, secrets to keep.

The wind hums warnings only I seem to hear.
Yet the world walks blind, unshaken by fear.

Does the candle flicker because it knows.
That the storm it dreads already blows?

“A dog barks not at an empty hut,”
But who listens before the wound is cut?

The drum beats hollow before the fall.
Still, they dance—unaware of fate’s call.

If the moon sends riddles I cannot ignore,
Shall I run, or listen once more?

For when the rain whispers before it pours,
It is the wise who lock their doors.

The sky has spoken, the earth has sighed.
But who will heed before dreams collide?

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