The whispers of ink dance upon the trembling surface.
Ink autumns cascading across the dreamscape, where words on parchment sigh in poetic hesitance.
Shadows flicker, elusive as dew upon the dawn minute,
Vanishing, dissolving, into the pearl embrace of morning's gentle beckoning.

Let the ink river, winding through parables unexplored,
Suddenly cease to flow within the heart's journal.
Who dares to chase the fugitive lines sketched by ethereal hands,
Transcribing the inarticulate longing of souls intertwined with time?