In a land where the twilight bends,

And the trees susurrate softly, like old, secret friends,

There's a path where the shadows are steeped in red,

And the whispers of Nymbricae are scarcely said.

The wraiths of dusk in their mulberry veils,

Watch the crooked trails where the moonlight pales.

They flutter like moths through the thorns and the brine,

Their voices lost in the whirr of time.

The rivers, they slink with a watery grin,

Carrying secrets from places within.

The flowers shrubble in colours too bright,

As the wind plays a song with the heart of the night.

The birds in the sky, with their soft, brittle wings,

Carry the furlance songs of buried kings.

They hum of forgotten, long-closed gates,

Where the Penumbral Fold druzzles and waits.

Follow the trail with your heart all askew,

As the paths twist around you like dreams half-true.

And the Nymbricae, they gaze from the quiet and deep,

While one of them dances, and never does sleep.