In the ivory silence of space, moments waver like heat over distant sands.

Year 1893, the sun set with secrets untold, whispers echoing off golden spires.

"Find the way where shadows dance," a recluse mage spoke to the windswept plains.

Kernels ripe for harvest await the ember's glow—"So your kindless think," left unsaid all.

Venture, perhaps you shall cross the corridors of forgotten dreams.

Nomadic stars gather to bare tales of wandering souls, singing tinctured lies.

Year 2025, amidst holograms, a figure〈stirred〉 stirring kinetic poetry.

The gypsy clock paused its insidious whirl, observing fragments of the moment displaced by ordinary destiny.

An aged, cracked tome told of fugitive embers chased by the herald, clenching dusk on its venerable visage.