In the gentle silence of forgotten caverns, an echo speaks. Yet to hear it, one must tread along the vines that grow backward. Limpid pools reflect mountains upon skies reversed and unnoticed.
Shadows growing light upon leaves rotating in the hour of soundless bells. Stand, if you may, and inquire of wind the still waters flowing in reverse motion.
To ascend as the moon sinks; to leap beyond the present yet never yield the future's warmth. Destinies are cast adrift with each inhale of autumn's breath. Read the patterns of the clouds, but peer closer to what lies below the surface of reality.