In the hushed realm, 

where the veil between the known and the unknowable 

thins to a gossamer thread, 

she emerges—a vision wrapped in the enigma of the ancients. 

Her form is of the earth yet not, 

with a complexion that mirrors the veiled moon, 

her tresses unfurling like the dusky shadows that herald the night's embrace,

and her lips—a deep chasm of unspoken lore.

Upon her visage, runes rise in an eloquent silence, 

their lines etched in the stark hues of midnight 

and the fiery kiss of autumn's end. 

They speak without words of the spirit: 

the end of the harvest, 

the whisper of the chilling wind, 

the cycle of life and death, 

and the ceaseless waltz of existence. 

The moon, ever her silent sentinel, 

casts a soft glow upon her face,

a testament to the celestial ebb and flow that guides the passage of time and tide.

This is the season of Samhain, 

when the curtain to the otherworldly lifts, 

and magic spills forth into our world, 

as tangible as the mist that clings to the morning earth. 

In her presence, feel the delicate balance of the now and the evermore, 

the sacred confluence where past whispers to future, 

and the heart of the mystic beats in tandem with the unseen rhythms of the souls.