In the deep, where silence stirs, the remnants of stars lay imprinted on the minds of the ancients. Words, etched in darkness, speak of aeons past and futures unwritten. The ink of cosmic constellations runs through them, binding time in fluid form.
"The Earth spins, sings the threadbare tune of forgotten skies," murmurs the inscription, resonating through the vacuum of introspection.
There is a balance in the stygian murmurings, a dance of galaxies unseen, where each syllable drifts like the dust of stars settling upon the transient surface of being.
Reflections on silent shores await those who dare traverse the astral tides, where each wave carries the essence of cosmic lingerings, wrapped in wistful breath.
The cool glow of celestial signs ignites contemplation: Do these verses hold whispers of what was or what may still be?