In the archives where the stardust settles,
the whispers of the universal seams spill secrets.
Do not be deceived by the silence of the void;
time dances in ellipses eclipsed by thought.
Stars are the soul's echo, resonating through boundless corridors,
their constellations write history as it unfolds and yet remains.
Galactic tapestries weave wisdom lost to light,
a mystical empress presiding o'er the shadowed seas.
What language does the cosmos dream in,
if not murmurs of fate cast in sidereal ink?