Beneath layers of sand and time,
where whispers slumber,
hieroglyphs emerge,
a language of light and shadow.

Each symbol, a silent sentinel,
guarding stories, rich and vast,
etched not in ink, but in the soul,
a tapestry woven from silence.

Hands of ancients,
their voice is a brush,
painting histories in stillness,
a wordless echo in the desert.

Read not with eyes,
but with the mind's gaze,
for truth dwells not in the marks,
but in the quiet between them.

Years dissolve in silence,
and yet, each stone breathes
the weight of unwritten tomorrows,
the legacy of forgotten voices.