Like the quiet hum of circuitry within an abandoned space capsule,
we travel through lengthened shadows that stretch beyond memory.
Is the sound a murmur or a memory, inscribed in the cosmic ballet
of distant celestial notes, unyielding and often unheard?
In the hinterland, every step reverberates through hallways
echoing with the faint starry signals that brush the soul,
invitations from constellations yet unnamed, unclaimed by
the piercing gaze of intertwined human histories.
We, the dreamers caught adrift between the soil and the stars,
breathe in the dusk air salted with the scent of time's parade.
Silently, we record the faint lines written by transient hands
on the parchment of an ever-unfolding sky.
Companions of epochs, gather through memory's attuned lens
the forgotten whisper of worlds that once tasted the sun
but chose the hinterland of shadows where time folds
like paper boats guiding dew-specked midnight waterways.