The Murmur of the Immortal Echo

Shadows write on worn walls
Names of monks who were never born. Clocks meet with hands to sleep.

While actions echo without form or expression, a bell wails until the cloudy morning, as if time mourns its loss.

Finally, a voice whispers from the stone:
"Not all lifeless things are found in their graves." And the sound, hungry, repeats the prayer, leaving in the breeze a mystery that no one labels, that only your dream goes beyond the mystical imagination.