Through whispers that furrow the silence, the cursing horn sounds

Through whispers that furrow the silence, the cursing horn sounds, Over plains of shadow the dusk of night descends all around. Hyperion of night glows with embers beneath lids of silver light, In silence watches over sparse poplars, caressed by the moon's delight. Dreaming of the scent from deep, dark woods, on the lake's mysterious wave, Begging for comfort from the stars that weep in the realm of the forgotten, their enclave. Thirsting to trace hurried steps, to journey beneath the starry sphere, While the rhythm of seasons softly ticks, like a clock in the night drawing near. Linden flowers shatter over celestial metaphors that echo in night's thrall, From the glittering dawn to the borders of dark eternities, overarching all. Through the centuries, as legatees on Earth, his steps will remain unswayed, Like a gold coin rimmed by fate's bright light, ever vibrant, always unstayed. Lord of the stars, a young noble robed in romances of elation, With night's locks cascading, the forest patrols in hushed revelation. Like a sage of silence, tethered to solitude with ancient ties, Treading paths that angels step, in the crickets' twilight symphony, the bird descends and flies. With eyes that embody the infinite, thoughts nobly uplifted in cosmic sprawl, He reclines on the forehead of time immortal, a monarch in high-walled hall. You've poured magic through the gates of ether, unlocking the most treasured enigma, cast, In the celestial chamber you unwittingly sign your name, on scattered parchment, on a constellation vast. Apollo of oblivion, from your searing, touch-me-not zodiacal trace, You spin the stars like a rosary, forever set as their vigilant grace.