"Within the embrace of twilight's gentle hands,"
murmurs the brook, "half-remembered, half-forgotten."
Shadows dance upon waters, adhering whispers of whispers,
reverberations of a time not singular, but entwined.
"The leaf descends, a traveler of the realms,"
sidesteps the current, "each vessel a message, an encryption."
Grottos serve as archives of silence,
where half-truths and half-silences
merge in the infinite tapestry of murmurs.
In these folds where dusk and whisper coalesce,
the creek writes an elegy for forgotten echoes,
half-secrets sheltered in the crooks of time's gentle stream.