Within the leafy boughs of forgotten realms,
The rustic clock whispers tales of lace-weaved dreams,
Of moments captured midair, like butterflies,
Entombed in amber, beneath cosmic hymns.
Do you hear the clock, as it hums?
Each tick a soft sigh, a sylvan plea,
Each tock a dance, of cosmic dust,
In circles round, a silent, sacred waltz.
When the hands reach the end of their pilgrimage,
Know that time, dear soul, is but a masquerade,
A facade of moments, wrapped in stars' embrace,
Singing the lullabies of eternity's cradle.
Dancing Sands of Time
The Silent Violin