Bran Reed
Somewhere between silence and storm, I wander through shadowed woods,
carrying songs like fading embers in my hands.
Not written, not owned – just echoes, born of forgotten winds.
The raven sings them back to me, and strings answer where words fall short.
What you hear is not an explanation, but a trace of something older,
a fragment of the unseen.
Perhaps it is sorrow, perhaps desire – or just the quiet breathing of the night.