In the hushed tremor of evening air, a voice, ancient as sleep, coils around the syllables of dusk. Words unravel like old scrolls, deciphering the chapter of dreams we forgot to read. Here lies the relic of an epoch, where every whisper plants a seed in the infinite field of time.
Words stand vigilant, etched in the astral dunes: Čč Ċč ČĔ ėēĊ ęĆLj ăĐ. They murmur secrets of a forgotten world, echoing through winds that knew once the dance of yesteryears. Open your doors, unfurl your sails, for the winds speak both of beginnings and endgames.
Listen. In their stories, mirrored through your amber gaze, the past etches itself anew, coursing the old rivers with silver songs. Reflect upon what was, what is, what waits to be breathed aloud by celestial lips.