Whispers on the fall wind.
Slivers of hints written in the veins of leaves.
No way to make it all make sense.
Barely a wisp of a song, hardly a melody.
Pricks in the silence.
Ripples on the water.
The witch’s cry is silent.
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Whispers on the fall wind.
Slivers of hints written in the veins of leaves.
No way to make it all make sense.
Barely a wisp of a song, hardly a melody.
Pricks in the silence.
Ripples on the water.
The witch’s cry is silent.
Back to Blog