In the realm where dreams embroider silence, a fluttering ghost of yesterday's sigh, painted on the ether's slim veneer, fleeting whispers weave like woven ivy.
Echoes of laughter untouched by twilight, drift across the brims of dawnless streams, caressed by mist, the elegy of lost sonnets, drifting, adrift, on forgotten moonbeams.
The owl spoke, not in words, but in pauses, marking lines on pages written in dusk, "Once we were the sand, but we have become echoes."
Shadows dance in the urgency of whispers, beneath the freeze of stars unheard, unseen, silken strands of silver eyes shimmer, hazy in the absence, forever serene.
Now, trace the lines where echoes lost roam, beneath the velvet cloak of whispered time; seek the paths where silences call home, within the soft embrace of solstice chimes.
Unearth another murmur in the labyrinths of daydreams, or visit silent rivers where echoes rest.