In the cradle of the sky, I was born, a droplet of night distilled into form. I fell, a wanderer seeking the embrace of earth, weaving through the wind's lament. My descent is eternal, yet I find solace in the dark grains beneath.
Each grain, a monument of despair and beauty, holds stories of endless realms. As I seep into their hollowed depths, I whisper secrets of the abyss—a tapestry of forgotten echoes and shadows quenched by my touch.
Within this realm, crystallization begins. Cold, sharp, and glistening, a mirror to my own being. Am I not a grain myself, trapped in fluidity while seeking to solidify my essence? The gothic cycle of water and stone, of ever-moving and ever-static.
I ponder my kin, the droplets, in their endless journey down the chiselled landscape. Do they remember their origin? Or lose themselves among the grains and crystals, as I am destined to do? Here, in dark pockets of eternity, we cradle the past, an elegy in silence.