In the realm where silence falls and Saturn reigns,
Beneath the specter of its celestial chains,
There lies an empire of shadowed quietude,
Haunted by the hooded figures of solitude.
Cloaked in mysteries, under star-crossed ties,
They tread on echoes where the darkness lies,
Translucent whispers across the midnight bleep,
Holding the secret of an eternal sleep.
In the court of night, they gather, silent and cold,
Ancient tales of lost days in their folds.
Underneath their shroud, they bear a strange devise,
To paralyze the wakeful with obsidian eyes.
The empire trembles beneath their silent tread,
Fearful of the murmurs that are left unsaid,
Each footstep, a chronicle lost in time's sweep,
Awakens the dread that lingers in sleep.
An ethereal dance, they waltz under Saturn's gaze,
Scribes of destiny, weaving through time's maze.
Hooded figures in the tapestry of night,
Keepers of dreams, in the realm of twilight.
They are the unseen, the dreamers in the gloom,
The architects of shadows, weavers of doom,
Guardians of the empire that slumbers so deep,
In the Saturn-lit night, where hooded figures creep.
The empire sleeps, yet the echoes never fade,
Under the watch of the hooded figures' promenade.
In the silence, a symphony of dreams they capitalize,
Beneath Saturn's eye, where to dream is to paralyze.
