Time's hesitations create corridors where light bends and whispers,
pleading for clarity, haunting the spirals of memory painted in shades
of forgotten gold.
Imagine the archways that flicker, drenched in a glow unyielded by
any sun, calling
for travelers whose footprints mute upon the paths of obsidian. They
reach out, fingers trembling, tracing stories of once upon a time and
never again.
The air is a mosaic of murmurs, each segment a dialect of solitude,
each echo a story half-remembered, half-forgotten.
Go through the passages, and you will see the shadows dance;
they whisper to you, but you hear only fragments in the silence.
Beneath the arches, the floor is lavished with dust,
with spectres of stories that vibrate beneath muted hangings.
Luminous paths lead some to understanding, while others wander blind,
weaving new tapestries from the threads of the old.