In the whispers of the night, a silver thread unravels

In the whispers of the night, a silver thread unravels, And we wander through the ruins of progress, Bathed in the glow of dying stars. Listen, the moon sings a melancholic lullaby, Its light a phantom caress on the cheeks of time. Oh, the tales we scrawled on the parchment of hopes, Now just faded ink in the corners of oblivion. The corridors of our steel dreams stretch endlessly, Yet within their cold embrace, the spirit trembles, Eroding under the ceaseless march of hollow triumphs. What are these towers we have raised? Skeletons of grandeur in a desert of yearning, Their shadows merely the phantoms of misguided ambition. Oh, how they sing of progress, While the soul withers in a cage of shining lies. See the rivers of our dreams, turned into veins of sorrow, Carving canyons of despair through the landscapes of our being. With each step we pretend to climb towards the heavens, An echo of descent into the abyss of our essence. We wear the masks of advancement, Behind them, our faces sculpted with lines of disillusion. In the heart of every machine, a silent scream of the forsaken spirit, And every click, every hum, a requiem for forgotten wonders. We thought we would conquer the stars, But only stoked the fires of our inner darkness. Behold, the end of the modern world, Not an apocalypse of flames and fury, But a soft sigh, a vanishing dream, The illusion shattered like glass under the weight of truth. And in the final light of dusk, We find not endings, but mere whispers of beginnings, Seeking solace in the twilight of our own making.