The Whispering Bough

Under the moon's kaleidoscope, the boughs remained untouched, waiting, watching. Their semiotic purpose extending, intertwining lost names and fading dreams.

Perhaps the silence sang, or perhaps it wept softly. But the bough forecasted alongside forgotten echoes, beneath the veiled night sigh.

Flares of insight, accidental yet deliberate, echo the cosmic wanderer’s tales, where red whispers of an unknowable dance in the glade.

Invisible threads taught as if not night, nudging eternity, sew fleeting glimpses of infinity with olive-threaded needles of stars.

Linking worlds unseen and uncertainties unmet, these branches coding secrets in the twilight's vernacular.

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