In the languid drift of time's expanse,
where whispers clasp the echoes of yore,
an ether broods upon cosmic shores,
lost sonnets of an unmatched dance.
Artifact in hand,
brimming with silver rain clouds,
a clock unwinds its dreams,
upon the palimpsest of reclaimed thoughts.
Did the ancients speak in rhymes?
or was their verse lost in chasms,
unraveling through the ages,
an ode to the forgotten constellations.