In the hollow woods, echoing hymns of a forgotten age, a phantom sparrow flits between shadows, spelling out verses unseen. These are tales forgotten, caught in the slipstream of a world unveiled.
The sun, caught beneath a lattice of silent thorns, weaves fabric of lore among the underbrush, creeping with a tender hand. Wilted leaves speak of stories once sung to the oceans, held in the lips of wandering winds.
Across realms of azure mist, where dreams convalesce at daybreak's whisper, there lay the vestiges of a broken clock. It is here time softly pirouettes before a curtain unseen, awaiting the call to dance in cyclical harmony.
Among the citric shadows of an orchard unkempt, specters of an internal reverie lay hidden. They cradle the birth of worlds, embryonic in silence, penned in beats that crack the skulls of stars.