Beneath the ink of sky,
where the stars once danced in forgotten chorales,
we find remnants of whispered lines,
fragments flecked with celestial dew.
In corridors of time left unspoken,
the future slips silently,
a ghost cloaked in nebulous veils,
tracing paths of dreams yet unmade.
Ink spills across the astral page,
tales of tomorrow written in twilight's embrace,
luminous threads woven through void's expanse,
binding the soft echoes of ancients.
Listen to the echoes, navigate murmurings.
Chart the unseen, name stars born from silence.