“When did silence begin to speak?” the upside-down moon asked.
“I do not ask if it is time,” she replied, floating through the evening's blush.
The clock ticked backwards, and so did the laughter of the shadows.
Rivers of ink flowed uphill, crafting stories yet to be unfathomed.
“What is a question without an answer?” whispered the edge of eternity.
Cross over to the falls
Etched in whispers, sung by silence