The indigo ink seeps
upon parchment unmapped,
weaving tales in cartographer's whispers.

Oi195—a line drawn not in land,
but in the soul's breath,
where reflection shimmers,

in unseen murmurs of seas untamed,
a horizon lost,
found only in dreams' contrived depths.

Chart we the echoes of silence
through contour undefined,
oval paths of star's descent.